


The Incident at Wallog

by Popcornjones



Series: Adventures of the Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Comfort/Angst, Confessions of love, Hurt Sherlock, Hypothermia, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, John-centric, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, POV First Person, POV John, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pedophilia, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock in peril, Sick Sherlock, bit o fluff, fevered admissions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Sherlock and John travel to Wales to investigate a suspicious death. But Sherlock has secrets he's been keeping from John.





	1. A Suspicious Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> Dedicated to Mistyzeo, a much better writer (go read her fics! And her IRL book!) who enjoys a Sherlock with a sexual past.

SHERLOCK

I hadn’t lied when I’d told John Watson I considered myself married to my work. I hadn’t said, for example, ‘I’m asexual,’ or ‘I don’t find you attractive.’ I’d told the simple truth – I wasn’t interested in a relationship. I didn’t want a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anyone who could possibly become more important than my work. Because the work was everything.

But that didn’t mean that I didn’t have sex. Far from it. But I kept it ruthlessly separate from my work.

Earlier that very day, I opened Grindr on my smartphone and scanned to see who else was on – I had a few ‘regulars,’ clean, discreet fuck-buddies I hooked up with when I needed to scratch that particular itch. 

Meeting John Watson – limping, depressed, aimless as he was – had definitely put me in the mood. There was something attractive in the very idea of a military man. (At least, that’s what I told myself.)

Grindr chirped, announcing that I’d received a message: 

CockStand31: Haven’t seen you here in a while.

I considered. CockStand31 was a 35 year old day trader named Craig Jones who had a small flat in Fitzrovia. He worked the American markets, so he was available during the day, which often coordinated with my schedule. Craig was blonde and fit, HIV negative, and had a fine, seven-inch cock that he knew how to use. He was not boring at all – for up to an hour if he kept his mouth shut, or wrapped around my prick, both of which I encouraged. 

SureSecured: I’m here now. Want to hook up?

CockStand31: Yeah. When?

I looked at my watch and calculated.

SureSecured: An hour. Your place. 

CockStand31: I’ll be waiting. 

Grindr was convenient, but I would have preferred something even more anonymous. I thought fondly of younger days – pre-Grindr days – having little adventures in parks and cottages... I’d never been completely reckless, insisting on condoms for penetrative sex, and I’d been lucky (or astute) in my choice of partners – I’d never been beaten up nor contracted anything more noxious than crabs. But ever since my teenaged self had made eye contact with Victor Trevor in the woods behind old Grantham Farm, I’d taken advantage of the abundant, anonymous sex available to men who had sex with other men. 

When I joined John Watson to show him 221b Baker Street that evening, I’d been well-fucked and sucked, kissed and frigged and spit-roasted (Craig’s boyfriend had joined in). My needs, I thought, had been met.

Thinking back, I realise I’d been attracted to John Watson from the start. Even before the compliments, before he KILLED for me and I really SAW John Watson. There was something about the wan, limping figure that had appealed. I had seen more than a recently invalided, down on his luck, army doctor with no family but an alcoholic sibling – I had seen a man who had lost almost everything, yet resolutely wrapped himself in the scraps of dignity he still possessed and refused to compromise himself. 

Why THAT had appealed to me, I couldn’t answer.

But it would have been idiotic to have sex with a potential flatmate. And it was beyond obvious that John Watson was straight.

Realising I was in love with the man was a shock. But I could trace that too to the beginning – to after we had confronted the American tourist in the back of the serial killer’s cab, after we had run all the way back to 221b Baker Street and John had collapsed against the wall in the front entry trying to catch his breath.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” John had gasped.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John had giggled adorably at my quip and I laughed with him. 

I had laughed WITH John. I realised that for the first time in many, many years, I was sharing the joke – not bored, not playing a role, and most importantly, not the butt of the joke.

Immediately after, I was able to show John that his limp was healed. I was happy I’d done it – not to show off or prove myself right, which had been my impetus originally (or at least, not ONLY that) – but FOR JOHN. It was a gift from the depths of my sociopathic heart.

But love... I had not expected that. 

I knew I was in love with John Watson the moment John stepped out onto the deck of the swimming pool. 

“How!?” I’d thought, completely off-guard. “How can JOHN be Moriarty? How can John be my enemy? A criminal mastermind?! A murderer!? I LOVE HIM!”

Then John had blinked ‘S.O.S.’ and revealed the semtex strapped to his torso and I had a short-lived instant of relief before ‘JOHN IS IN DANGER’ penetrated and I got down to the business of saving my friend.

Now here I am, thirty-eight and in love for the first time in my adult life, and it is hopeless.

 

\---

 

“Sherlock! Where’s my laptop?” John called.

“Under the kitchen table.” I replied without looking up from my microscope.

“What is it doing under the table?” John sounded more exasperated than stroppy.

“Experiment.”

“Didn’t we talk about this? Use your own computer for experiments. Actually, just use your own computer." 

“Mm.” John didn’t ask what sort of experiment would necessitate being under the kitchen table, which was fortuitous as that was a lie. I had been reading his emails to his girlfriend.

It had been a study of misery – my own. 

*You're beautiful* John had written. *I miss you*

*Mariah- I love your lips when they’re wet with wine / And red with a wild desire; / I love your eyes when the lovelight lies /Lit with a passionate fire. J*

*I’ve been thinking about you all day. Dinner tomorrow? John*

That day, the day that John had been thinking about HER, he'd been with ME. We’d been watching the presumed hideout of jewel thieves. When we judged that the place was empty, we’d broken in and searched for evidence that this was indeed the gang that had been looting hotel safes for months. 

But members of the gang had returned whilst we were searching and we’d been obliged to huddle together at the back of a closet, bodies pressed against one another, John’s breath soft on my neck... after a quarter hour, we’d been discovered and had had to fight our way out. John was magnificent! I’m handy with my fists, and I have a number of street-fighting skills that serve me well, but John’s hand-to-hand combat is second to none. He unerringly uses his attackers' weight and momentum against them, even after they realise this short, regular-looking bloke isn’t an easy mark.

We’d fled the building with the villains in hot pursuit, ducking down alleys and pelting through a park. After what seemed like forever, John had taken me by the arm, pulled me around a blind corner and into an alley behind a pub. 

John had clambered up a bin and jumped for the fire escape – and I went right after him. He’d pulled me onto the platform and holding onto each other, we’d run up the six flights of stairs to the roof and lain there, recovering, waiting for the jewel thieves to either find us or leave the area. 

It was cold on the roof. We’d huddled together for warmth. For the second time in an hour, I had John’s body pressed against my own. It had been heaven. It had been torture. 

Now I discover that John had been thinking of his girlfriend the entire time. 

He’s sleeping with her, but he doesn’t say “I love you” in any of his notes. It’s cold comfort.

“We have a case in Wales.” I announce.

“Wales? When?”

“I’ve booked us on the 1 p.m. train.”

“Today!?”

“Of course.” I said, sneaking a glance at him. He’s got the laptop open and has paused his typing, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“What kind of case?” John asked.

“Suspicious death.” I say.

“How suspicious?” 

“Very. I’m 95 percent certain it was murder.” 

John heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’d better pack. How long do you think we’ll be there?”

“No longer than a week.” I say. 

“A week!” John mutters under his breath, typing. He’s writing to his girlfriend. I take ugly satisfaction in knowing that he is canceling dates with her, that he won’t see her as long as we’re in Wales.

I tried hooking up a few weeks ago. I feel so desperate for sex, for physical release... I found myself closing my eyes and imagining it was John touching me. But I knew it wasn’t him. He didn’t SMELL like John. I didn't want the anon hands pulling at my clothes, grabbing at my prick. 

I had left abruptly. I doubt StudTop will want to have a go with me again.

Sentiment. My brother is right, caring is not an advantage.


	2. A Face From the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor is unexpectedly encountered. He reveals the shocking nature of their relationship to John.

JOHN

Sherlock is acting strangely. More strangely than usual, I mean. Strange for Sherlock.

He’s been mooning around the flat for weeks. He’s not bored – we’ve had a steady stream of interesting cases, big and small. 

The only thing I can compare it to is when he thought Irene Adler had died... but this is worse. With Irene, I hated to see him that way, but I knew what was going on. It made sense.

Now, he’s trying to pretend that everything is normal. He eats when I’m watching, but it’s obvious he has no appetite. At night, I can hear him pacing the flat, or tossing and turning in his bed. He plays the violin when I’m out but stops abruptly when I get home. He’s hiding his pain from me.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” I asked him last night. 

He ignored me. We were sitting on the couch watching telly and he had seemed better for a while. He’d even laughed at me when I switched to a crime procedural – he can’t resist yelling at the characters about their idiocy ... but it wasn’t long after that the blackness descended again.

I touched his arm. “Sherlock, something’s been bothering you for weeks. What is it? Let me help.”

He was tense under my hand. “Nothing.” He said too quickly. “What do you mean?”

“Come on. If it’s personal, I don’t want to pry, but...”

“It’s personal!” He said it the moment I offered the excuse. I cursed my stupidity. 

“But I’m going to anyway.” I told him sternly. “Look, I’m your friend. I’m worried about you. Sherlock...” I slid my hand up his shoulder ... and for a second he relaxed. For a second I thought he would tell me. He even sighed a quiet little sigh and I saw something vulnerable in his eyes.

But before I even knew what I saw, his guard came up again. The mask of bland disinterest he wears almost constantly now was back. He pulled away from me and stalked into his bedroom where I could hear him pacing.

I debated forcing the issue, knocking on his bedroom door and going in. But I wanted to respect his privacy. We’re in each other’s pockets all the time, I don't want to press too hard. He'll tell me when he's ready. 

I hope he's ready soon. I'm really starting to worry.

A year ago, I was rooting around in the linen cupboard looking for a clean flannel when I found a prescription bottle filled with blue pills. It was Sherlock’s but I hadn’t prescribed anything for him in months. I didn’t recognize the name of the doctor that HAD prescribed them.

It was PrEP. Pre-exposure prophylaxis. A powerful drug taken by HIV negative people to avoid contracting HIV. It was usually given to non-monogomous gay and bisexual men. 

Why did Sherlock have them? In all the years we’d lived together, he’d never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. He’d never brought anyone to the flat for a liaison. He’d never pulled at the bar or even looked at another person with sexual interest. The closest he ever came was Irene Adler – and as far as I could tell, they never consummated the attraction. Honestly, I don’t even know if he WAS attracted to her physically. He showed no sign – he never responded to her overtures... nor did he recoil from them. 

He has displayed nothing but asexuality. People try to chat him up and he either ignores it or purposely misunderstands. He doesn’t even seem notice when other people assume that he and I are a couple. I can protest until I’m blue in the face, he can’t even be bothered to acknowledge it. It’s infuriating sometimes, but it’s Sherlock. 

Maybe the PrEP was part of a case – posing as a patient or as a swinger... 

The bottle was only half full. Sherlock has secrets.

The train to Aberystwyth took four and a half hours. I used some of the time to try and placate Mariah. She wasn’t happy that I’d broken our date for that night. 

John: I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s my job. 

Mariah: You work at a clinic in Camden.

John: No, actually I don’t. 

Mariah: Did they sack you when you told them you were going to Wales for a week?!

As a matter of fact, they had – or rather, we’d agreed it wasn’t a good fit, the clinic and I. It’s too bad, I rather liked it there. Camden has more than its share of interesting patients. When I spend all day taking temperatures and dispensing paracetamol, a stabbing now and again livens things up.

John: I work with Sherlock. You know that. This kind of job isn’t predictable. 

Mariah: Job! Do you actually get paid?

John: Of course!

(Sometimes, anyway.)

John: I’ll make it up to you when I get back, I promise.

Mariah: You can’t promise, John, not when all Sherlock has to do is snap his fingers and you run off to jump through hoops for him.

John: That’s not fair. 

Mariah: It’s not fair that you’re standing me up tonight. AGAIN! John, this is the third time. We’ve only been going out for four months. I’m sorry I’m making a big deal out of it this time, but it’s becoming a pattern. It IS a big deal.

Only four? It seemed longer. 

“Melanie in a strop?” Sherlock asked.

“Mariah!” I hissed at him. “You KNOW her name’s Mariah.” 

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder without looking up from his phone. 

I couldn’t be too mad at him – he actually seemed to be in a better mood. Maybe he really did just need a more interesting case. Or a change of scenery.

“She’s not happy. I was supposed to meet her sister tonight.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow insincerely and made an overly sympathetic face. 

I kicked him. “Don’t be an arse.” I said. But I couldn’t help but laugh – and I was rewarded when he laughed with me.

“Tell me about this case.” I prompted.

Sherlock’s face changed immediately – keen interest replacing amusement.

“Lady Anwen Llewellyn, the Countess of Kilvey, contacted me.” Sherlock began. “Her father, who recently remarried, died in a hiking ‘accident’ – the coroner ruled misadventure.” Sherlock gave me the look that meant he thought the coroner was an idiot. “She accepted that verdict until her father’s will was read. It’s not the will he showed her after his marriage – she’s the heir to the family pile, but Lord Llewellyn – Sir Afan Llewellyn, the Earl of Kilvey – was personally wealthy from textile manufacturing. She believes his will was changed or substituted without his knowledge. And now she’s questioning whether his death was an accident.”

“You don’t think it was an accident, you said as much.”

“Sir Afan was a physically fit man in his mid-fifties and an avid hiker. His ‘misadventure’ occurred on a trail he frequented. The trail was in good shape, there was good weather, there hadn’t been any damage to the trail... it seems highly unlikely he would fall to his death accidentally on a trail he knew so well.” 

“The new wife, does Lady Anwen suspect her?” 

“The will doesn’t favour her, so no. From what she said, Sir Afan’s widow shares her suspicions. They seem to be rather tight.” 

“Who DOES the will favour?”

“Lady Anwen herself and her three brothers. Several servants received generous annuities. And the family lawyer is getting a significant amount.”

“But the new wife is cut out.”

“It seems so. The brothers have been pressuring Lady Anwen to throw her out – they never took to her, apparently.” 

“Nice of 'em." I considered for a moment. "Is she ‘Lady Llewellyn too? The wife? I’ve never been clear on how peerages work.”

“I don’t know. The marriage was kept quiet for the most part – small, private ceremony, no announcement. I couldn’t find any mention online, which is unusual. But Sir Afan, though still young, had mostly retired from public life – Lady Anwen was taking over his duties. I’m not sure many people even knew he had remarried. Lady Anwen called her ‘Vic,’ so ‘Lady Victoria’ would be most likely.”

“Lady Victoirine?” I suggested and a smile ghosted across Sherlock’s face.

“We’ll find out when we get there.”

“And where is ‘there’ exactly?”

“Wallog – home of the Earl of Kilvey. It’s north of Aberystwyth on the coast.” 

“Wallog.”

 

\---

 

Wallog was enormous. We arrived after 19:00, but even in the dark, it was intimidating – the sort of place where they make Jane Austen films or is converted to a posh hotel or exclusive sanatorium. I could hear the ocean waves crashing, a constant dull roar, and smell the salt in the air as we approached along an avenue of trees. We passed the largest shrubbery I’d ever seen. It was like a wall. 

Sherlock must have seen me gaping. “It’s a hedge maze.” He told me. “One of the largest.”

“Mr. Holmes! Thank you for coming!” Lady Anwen met us at the front doors.

“Sherlock, please.” He said, shaking her hand. 

She nodded. “Good. And you must call me ‘Anwen.’ None of that ‘Lady’ nonsense. Dr. Watson?” She turned to me. 

“John.” I said. She was a well put together woman in her mid-twenties, very fair with the sort of peaches and cream complexion British (and Welsh, I guess) girls strive for. She wore jeans, a garnet-coloured jumper and riding boots. Her pale hair was pulled back into a simple knot. She was effortlessly elegant – she reminded me of Sherlock that way. 

The pair of them were formidably dashing. I trailed them into the hall.

The hall was longer and larger than our entire flat. There was a stairwell at the far end and large oak doors on both walls. The fine Persian carpet on the floor showed minimal signs of wear and the grandfather clock was pristine.

“Ianto will take your bags up.” Anwen said, indicating a casually dressed man that might've been a servant. I couldn’t tell for sure. He took my duffel and Sherlock’s valise and disappeared up the staircase. Lady Anwen herself took our coats and hung them in a coat closet near the door.

“Vic and the boys are around somewhere.” She said. “They’ll be at dinner. Do you want to settle into your rooms...?” 

“I’d like to see the will, if possible. And hear how it’s different than what you expected.” Sherlock said avidly. 

Lady Anwen smiled – pleased that Sherlock wanted to get right down to business. “Come into the study, then.” She said and led us to one of the doors farther down the hall. 

The ‘study’ was a full-on library. There were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls, the fourth had two large windows that extended almost from ceiling to floor. A large oak desk sat in front of them opposite a leather couch and several matching chairs. A green Chinese lamp sitting on an occasional table looked like it belonged in a museum, as did the painting on the wall between the windows, a full-body portrait of a man and a woman in Georgian dress, he holding her delicate hand as if he might bend and kiss it.

“It’s a lot, I know.” Anwen said to me with a rueful smile. “I have a pied-à-terre in London that’s so much more practical. The upkeep on this place is insane.”

“I imagine.” 

“The will.” Sherlock prompted with only a hint of impatience. I gave Anwen my apologetic look. 

“I have it here.” She said, going to the desk. She unlocked a drawer and lifted out a folio of papers. She laid it open on the desk. “This is the will that Owen – Owen Hughes, the estate’s lawyer – had. He swears it's the one my father gave it to him.”

Sherlock picked up the sheaf of papers and started scanning it, flipping the pages until he found the bequests. “I’ll want to read it more closely, but right now show me what is different from the will your father showed you.”

“A couple things.” Anwen said, leaning against the desk. “The biggest is that Vic isn’t even mentioned. The will my father showed me, Vic was provided for – not lavishly, but not modestly either. Enough for him to live on if he chose.”

“Him?” I asked.

“Yes. My father married another man. Our mother died twelve years ago – cancer. Dad never seemed interested in getting remarried. But five years or so ago, I noticed that he seemed happier. A lot happier. Eventually he introduced me to Vic, his partner. I was very grateful to see him that happy again. And Vic is great. He’s one of my closest friends now.

“But my brothers... went a bit mad. They never accepted Dad’s sexuality. They HATED Vic. They’re the reason Dad kept the marriage so private. It wasn’t a secret, not at all. But Dad let the boys have their way publicly.” She scoffed. “I think they were just afraid their mates would find out. Wankers.” She looked up at me. “I love my brothers, but they have been complete wankers about Vic.”

“Do you think one of your brothers might have replaced the will somehow?” I asked as Sherlock returned to reading the bequests.

“I don’t want to think that. Before I saw this will, I would have said absolutely not. But now... I don’t know what to think.”

“You said Vic and your brothers are here now?” 

“Yeah. Vic wants to leave Wallog. Dad wouldn’t want that – he would HATE to know my brothers put him out. And I want him to stay! It’s lonely out here sometimes. Maybe I’m selfish, but it’s great having a friend close at hand. I’ve come to rely on him.” Anwen teared up. “I miss Dad so much... and Vic is completely torn up...”

I patted her shoulder comfortingly and handed her my (thankfully clean) handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes. “Forgive me.” She said. 

“Not at all.”

“I almost told him I asked Sherlock Holmes to come and investigate, so he’d stay.”

“You haven’t told him?” I asked. 

“I haven’t told anyone.” 

Sherlock spoke suddenly. “There’s a rather large bequest to Owen Hughes – the lawyer of record. Was that in the will your father showed you?” 

“No.” Anwen said.” There was a bequest but it wasn’t nearly so generous. I’ve wondered if it was a bribe to get Owen to change out the real will for this one.”

Sherlock nodded. “And you and your brothers, I see you’ve all been left different amounts.”

“Yes. I’m getting somewhat more than what I expected. As the heir to the title, I was always getting the lion’s share – this place and enough to keep it. But not near what’s listed there.”

“How much more?” Sherlock asked.

“Thirty million pounds.”

I tried not to look as shocked as I felt. Thirty million pounds is ‘somewhat more?’ This is a totally different world from what I live in.

“And your brothers?”

“I thought they were getting equal shares, about fifty million apiece. As you can see...” Anwen pointed at a line in the will. “Geraint is left sixty million, Selwyn eighty million and Gereth fifty – and the terms of Gereth's trust was changed.”

“Geraint is eldest?”

“Yes. He’s MY heir until I have children. If I have children."

"And Gereth is youngest?'

"Just fifteen. His share will be held in trust until he's twenty-one."

"How is that different?"

"Before it was eighteen."

Sherlock nodded. “And how much was Vic supposed to get?”

“Five million pounds. Dad wanted to give him more, but Vic didn't want it.”

“That... that doesn’t add up” I said. “This will is giving out more than 65 million more than the other?” My mind was still reeling at the amounts. Although in a world with billionaires...

“That was divided among forty or so smaller bequests.”

“All eliminated?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes. They’re just gone.”

“Hm.” Sherlock looked thoughtful. 

“Thank you for coming. I was starting to feel paranoid...”

“Not at all.” Sherlock assured her. “You may not be paranoid enough.”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“If someone DID murder your father, they might be looking at you next.”

“Me?!”

“If someone is after the title...”

“But... but... Geraint....”

“Listen.” I cut in. “It’s just a theory. And even if it’s true, that doesn’t mean it’s one of your brothers. It could be a cousin or someone else farther down the line. It’s more likely someone just wanted to cut Vic out the will.”

Anwen nodded and visibly took hold of herself. “Thank you, John.” She said as a clock chimed. “Oh! Dinner in fifteen minutes. I’ll show you your rooms.”

Sherlock and I had been given adjoining rooms again – adjoining rooms said ‘we don’t know if you’re a couple or not, sooooo...’ On one hand, I appreciate the thoughtfulness. On the other, WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK SHERLOCK AND I ARE TOGETHER!?

Sherlock didn’t seem to care for it either – the look on his face when he saw the adjoining door... crestfallen is what I thought at the time, but that doesn’t make much sense. I must have been mistaken.

I washed up, made sure my shirt wasn’t too rumpled from the train, and went down to the dining room. 

“Dr. Watson – John – come meet my brothers, Geraint, Gereth and Selwyn.” All three were as fair as their older sister, thought quite a bit taller. Geraint, the eldest brother looked to be in his early twenties. He was thirty pounds overweight, with an open, round face. Selwyn was the tallest. He had long hair that flopped in his face, obscuring his eyes. Gereth, the youngest, was slim and boyish and very good looking. He had his sister's effortless elegance. I shook hands with each in turn. 

"Geraint's girlfriend, Bess... and this is Vic, my late father’s husband.” Vic was a broad shouldered and muscular man in his forties with a firm handshake and masculine face. He had dark cocoa skin and very short black hair. Though he was only a few inches taller, I felt dwarfed by his breadth. His eyes looked sad.

“It’s good to meet you.” I said. He studied me closely like he was trying to remember where we'd met – and I recalled that Lady Anwen hadn’t told anyone that she’d asked us here. 

“Dr. John Watson... aren’t you....” Vic was interrupted by Sherlock’s entrance. 

I had never seen a black man look ashen before. But Vic's sad eyes grew round and the colour drained from his face. 

I turned and saw he was staring at Sherlock. He too looked shocked, bright red spots appearing high on his cheeks. He was frozen in place and – for once – speechless.

Lady Anwen didn’t appear to notice (though she must have). She introduced Sherlock to her brothers, and after a long (to me) second, Sherlock recovered himself and greeted them. 

“And this is Vic…” She began.

“Victor and I have met.” Sherlock said with a stunning lack of emotion in his voice. I had gathered as much from their reactions, but now I realised how painful the meeting was for my friend.

“Sherlock.” Vic said the name softly, like it overwhelmed him. But he offered his hand and after a millisecond of hesitation, Sherlock took it and they shook briefly. “What are you doing here?” Vic asked in a low voice. 

“I asked him to come.” Anwen said. “About the will.”

“The will again!?” Selwyn burst out. “Seriously, Ani…”

“Shut up, Selwyn.” Geraint said tightly. “Not in front of our guests.”

"I ...erm, I don't feel well." Sherlock said rapidly. "I have to go... Ok."

"Do you need...?" I started.

"No."

"Where are you...?"

"In my room." He said over my question. "Stay and eat, John." And he was out the door.

Everyone was stunned – myself included. But I made myself smile. "It's OK. He doesn't like to eat much when he's working." I even sounded lame to myself.

Dinner was an awkward affair. I gamely made conversation with Lady Anwen and Gereth. Geraint talked to Bess. Selwyn sat sullenly quiet. Vic – or Victor as Sherlock had called him – was also mostly silent, though he chimed in occasionally for Anwen’s sake. He drank rather more than he ate, and kept shooting curious looks my way.

As soon as dinner had finished, I stood up. “I should check on Sherlock.”

“Yes. Right.” Anwen said. “We’ll be in the library. Join us if you can, John.” 

“I will. Thank you.” I made my exit, dashing up the staircase to our rooms.

I knocked softly on the adjoining door – so he would know it was me – then opened it. “Sherlock…”

“Go away, John.” He said. He was pacing by the window and (!) smoking. 

“Where did you get a cigarette?!” I asked striding towards him.

Sherlock looked at his hand almost surprised to see the cigarette there. “I don’t know. Here.” He gestured at the room. 

I plucked it from his fingers, stubbing it out on the bottom of my shoe. I waved my hand at the cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding us, looking for the source.

I zeroed in on a wooden box on top of the bureau next to an ornate lighter. Sure enough, it was filled with cigarettes. Or it had been, a number were missing already. I picked up the box. Then I turned back to Sherlock. He had started pacing again.

“How do you know Vic?” I asked.

“Victor.” Sherlock corrected me. “His name is Victor.”

“OK. How do you know Victor?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I…”

“Sherlock…?” I stepped towards him, concerned. I’d never seen him so upset. 

“No!” He put up his hands as if to ward me off. “No. Not now, John.”

“I don’t like to see you this way.”

He looked at me, his eyes softening for a moment.

"Who is he to you?" I asked.

Sherlock looked startled. "He's... he was..." All the emotion drained from his face. “I can't...” He said.

“Sherlock…" 

"Just go!” He said, on the verge of shouting. Then softly: "Please, John."

“All right.” I held out a placating hand. “All right. You know where I am if you need anything.” 

He didn’t respond. I retreated to my own room and shut the adjoining door. I could hear him pacing. 

At least I’d taken the cigarettes. I should get rid of them somehow. I carried them downstairs… Anwen had said they’d be in the library. I would make our apologies and go back up. I went to the room she’d taken us to earlier and went in – and found myself alone with Victor. 

“Oh. Erm, sorry. Is this the library?”

The barest hint of a smile touched Victor’s lips. “No. This is the study.”

“I’m sorry to intrude.” I said. “And I’m sorry for your loss.” He’d lost his husband less than a month ago. I turned to go. 

“Wait.” I turned back and noticed that Victor had a bottle of whisky and a glass. “I suppose he’s told you about us.” 

“Sherlock? No.” I said. “He hasn't.” I was curious, of course, but if Sherlock didn’t want me to know...

Victor looked like he wasn’t certain he believed me. “Drink?” He asked, holding up the bottle.

My curiosity got the better of me. “Sure. Thanks.” 

Victor got another glass and poured a couple fingers. “I hope you don’t mind it neat.” He said, handing me the glass.

“Not at all.” 

“Sit.” He said, taking a corner of the leather couch for himself. I sat in the chair nearest. “I’ve seen him in the papers. Sherlock. With you. I was happy to see he was doing so well.” Victor took a slug of his whisky. 

“You were friends?” I asked. 

“He was my first love.” Victor said to his glass. “And I like to think I was his.” He glanced up at me. “Nothing for YOU to worry about, John. That was a long time ago.”

He thought Sherlock and I were together too. For once I didn’t protest – I was still trying to assimilate Sherlock in love with the Sherlock I knew. 

"Wait... you and Sherlock... you had a relationship?"

"Yes."

"A PHYSICAL relationship?"

"Erm, yes, John."

"Oh." I sat there trying to wrap my mind around it – Sherlock... MY Sherlock... asexual Sherlock ... had had sex with this man. More than once.

"And he was... your boyfriend?"

"Is that a problem?" Victor asked.

"No! It's just... Sherlock doesn't... Sherlock didn't... " What was I going to say? Sherlock doesn't have sex? Obviously he does – or did, at least. "...mention you." 

"Oh... I guess I don't really talk about him either."

“It didn’t end well?” I ventured.

“No. Sherlock made sure his brother didn’t hurt me…. or my prospects. That’s a happier ending than I deserved.” 

“Why would Mycroft…?” I stopped myself. 

“You REALLY don’t know.” Victor said. 

“No.”

Victor finished his glass and poured himself another. “It was my fault. Of course it was my fault! But I didn’t know… how could I have known? I was new to the neighborhood. I didn’t know the family – I didn’t know anybody. But I should have asked… found out somehow…" 

Victor was much drunker than I’d realised. “Found out what?”

“He told me he was seventeen." Victor said anxiously. "He was reading an advanced Chemistry text when I met him, and he was taller than me even then. I knew he was young, but I BELIEVED he was seventeen.”

“How old was he?” I was almost afraid to know.

“Thirteen.” Victor looked devastated. “He didn’t act thirteen. He didn’t LOOK thirteen. He insisted we keep our relationship secret – told me his parents didn’t know he was gay. Like he bloody cared what they thought. I should have known. I was the adult.” 

“How old were you?” I asked through my own shock.

“Twenty-four.” He hid his face in his hands. “We were together almost a year. We celebrated his eighteenth birthday together... what I thought was his eighteenth birthday… when Mycroft discovered us… he threatened to have me arrested. I was so arrogant. ‘Your brother is an adult,’ I told him. I’ll never forget what he said: ‘My brother is fourteen.’ I didn’t believe him… until I saw Sherlock’s face. I broke it off right there. I’d been… having a relationship with a child… having sex with a child.”

“Oh, god.” 

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. I was in love with him. I NEVER would have taken advantage of him – of any child – like that!”

“No. Erm, of course.” I said. Drunk or no, his anguish – his guilt – sounded real. 

“He’s OK now, yeah?” Victor implored me. “He’s… I didn’t… he’s OK?" 

“I don’t know.” I said softly. “We’re not… together like that. We’re not lovers.”

Victor peered at me. “But surely…”

“We’re friends. Good friends. We work together. Share a flat. But we don’t… I’m straight.”

Victor was dumbfounded. Then his face was blank as he retreated inside himself. “He has boyfriends? Girlfriends?” He asked distantly.

I licked my lips. “You’re the first person I’ve met that Sherlock has had a physical relationship with.” I admitted. “Until now, I thought he was asexual.” I remembered the prescription of PrEP in the linen closet. “Or, I don’t know, kept his sex life extremely private.”

Victor drank off the rest of his whisky and poured yet another. He’d wanted absolution from me – wanted me to tell him that Sherlock hadn’t been ruined by their affair.

I couldn't give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note Chekhov' hedge maze.


	3. Sherlock's Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reminisces about Victor. He tells John some of his secrets. Sherlock embarks on a journey.

SHERLOCK 

The first time I saw Victor Trevor... 

I went to the woods behind Grantham Farm because I'd heard rumours of what went on there – men met other men there for illicit sex. I was young, but I knew what I wanted and I was in a hurry to get it. Not enough of a hurry that I wouldn't turn down a bloke I didn't like the look of, but I was ready and willing if someone attractive came along.

That's where I met Victor. I'd brought my analytical chemistry book along that day – as an excuse if anyone wanted to know what I was doing out there. Studying. Just studying. There was a log in a little clearing with used condoms to one side. There was no doubt I was in the right place.

Victor was beautiful. Muscular – thinner than he is now, but very well-defined. One look and I knew I wanted him to hold me down so I couldn't get up if I tried – I knew he could do it. 

"Hiya." He said.

I met his eyes – lovely golden brown with intelligence behind them. "Hello." I answered. 

He sat down next to me on the log and asked what I was reading. I explained that it was a textbook. I was studying for an exam.

"Here? In the woods?" He asked.

"Yes. I hear it's a good place to... study." 

He smiled, his fingers brushed the hem of my t-shirt. I smiled back at him and closed my book. "I love to study." I told him, staring into his lovely brown eyes.

"Like this?" Victor asked, and leaned in and kissed me. His lips were soft, but his mouth was firm, demanding. I let him open my mouth with his tongue... it was my first kiss, but I didn't feel nervous. I let him take what he wanted. 

He took my hand and placed it on his groin, His cock was erect inside his trousers. I stroked it through the cloth. Then I unfastened them and pulled his cock out. It was glorious – brown and dark pink, already damp with arousal. I bent over and licked the salty tip. He moaned – I liked that! So I took the whole head in my mouth. His wasn't the first penis I'd touched, but I'd never fellated anyone before – I'd thought about it a lot, what it would feel like to have cock flesh in my mouth, pressing down my throat... I jacked him with one hand and sucked on him, bobbing to get him deeper. His hand found my head – I really liked that! And started to push my head down onto his cock. I let him fuck into my mouth from below, taking hold of his balls and pressing against them. Suddenly my mouth was full of bitter salt – he came in my mouth! I swallowed as much as I could, but it was dripping down my face when he pulled me up to kiss me. 

He jacked me off, kissing me all the way through, fingers on my nipple. Not that I lasted long – just having his big hand on my prick was almost enough to get me off.

Afterwards he kissed me softly. "That was good. Maybe I'll see you here again sometime."

"Maybe you will." I said, resolving to be there everyday.

I found him waiting for me the next day. He pressed me against a tree and snogged me whilst we rubbed our cocks together – mine was as long as his, but his was wider. I wanted to suck him again, but I didn't know how to ask.

The third day he asked my name. The fourth, he asked me back to his flat. 

"I want to... but I don't want anyone to see me... my parents..."

"They don't know yet?"

"No. This isn't how I want them to find out."

"I get ya. Come down the lane behind my building, nowt goes there – I'll leave the back door open for you."

I agreed. Victor's flat was small and sunny and very private. In his bedroom he undressed me and kissed my entire body. 

"You're really beautiful, kid."

I wanted to tell him not to call me 'kid'... but no one had ever said I was beautiful... HE was beautiful, chocolate brown all over and so strong! I loved how his big hands felt on me, how our skin felt against each other...

The first time he fingered me, I just about passed out from the pleasure. He could see how much I loved it. It wasn't long before he was fucking me. I had no idea anything could feel so good! I especially loved it when he held me down on his bed and whispered in my ear what he was going to do to me with his cock.

We saw each other almost every day. Then I started sneaking out at night to be with him. We would make love until just before dawn – when I'd run home before mummy and father woke up.

I couldn't get enough of him – and he never seemed to tire of me. Amazing in retrospect, knowing how tiresome most people are. 

We talked as much as we fucked. He told me about his work, about his dreams and plans. He wasn't going to be in my town for longer than two years... but he said we could visit each other whilst I was 'still' at University. 

I told him I was seventeen – almost eighteen. I knew my real age was problematic, but I had no idea HOW problematic. What thirteen-year-old doesn't want to be seventeen already? And I worked at it... I was half convinced myself.

I still remember how he kissed me, slowly at first, making me hard, making me want him. Then harder, more intense... and the way he looked at me, like I was something rare and precious...

We were in bed together – en flagranté – when Mycroft burst into Victor's flat. He was an old man even then, Mycroft, in his fussy suit, though he was three years younger than Victor.

I was FURIOUS with him. How DARE he!? 

Victor put his arm around me. "Don't worry, darling." He told me. "It'll be fine."

For a moment, I even believed him. I was that idiotic. 

Then Mycroft said, "my brother is fourteen years old." 

I felt Victor pull away from me, his body tense.

"You ruin EVERYTHING!" I shouted at Mycroft, aware that I'd never sounded more like a fourteen year old than right then. 

Victor cringed.

I never saw him again. We had no last words, no last moment together. He simply sat in a chair wearing his pants and an unbuttoned shirt, staring at the floor, whilst I dressed. 

Then I left with Mycroft. 

"Don't do anything to him." I begged my brother. "He didn't know. I lied to him. I seduced him. He doesn't deserve it!"

"What doesn't he deserve?"

"Whatever you're planning! Just leave him alone... please."

That got his attention. I never pleaded with him. Victor changed jobs, but Mycroft assured me it was a lateral move. He'd done nothing but move him far away.

For a few years I told myself that as soon as I was old enough, Victor would come for me. It was foolish. I realised how foolish when I turned sixteen. I had other lovers... or I tried. I was so lonely without him. No one touched me like he had. And after a while – an ever shortening while – they became tremendously dull. Either Victor had been incredibly special, or, more likely, my youth made him seem that way.

I decided I simply wasn't built for relationships. 

Then I met John.

I only want the relationships I cannot have. What does that say about me?

 

\---

 

I heard them out in the corridor, stumbling. 

I was in bed, but not asleep. Between seeing Victor again and the closed door between me and John – both literal and figural – I couldn't get a handle on this case. It was early days yet... but I couldn't help thinking I'd missed something obvious.

I'd talk it over with John in the morning. That never failed to shake something loose.

"Whoa... careful, Victor."

It was John, out in the corridor. With Victor. 

"Sorry! Sorry... John..." Victor slurred. He sounded dead drunk.

"Yeah, all right. One foot in front of the other. That's right. Where's your room?"

"You coming to my room with me? Sherlock won't like that!"

"You're pissed, Victor. Ok, none of that now." 

I sat up, straining to hear. 

"No, Victor... stop..."

There was a thump and a groan. I couldn't help but smile – I knew the sound of John being a bad-ass when I heard it. 

There was more stumbling and mumbling... gradually fading away. It was twenty minutes before I heard John return to the room next to mine. I listened to water running as he cleaned his teeth, moving around as he changed for bed. I knew these sounds intimately, I'd listened to them for years. They meant the world to me. 

Then he knocked on the adjoining door – softly in case I was asleep.

"Come in." I said. Even in the dark, I could see immediately that he knew. Victor had told him. I was relieved – I hadn't had the words. "Come in." I said again, sitting up.

John sat on the foot of my bed, drawing his feet under him like we were having a slumber party. He was wearing an old t-shirt that used to be mine and loose cotton drawstring trousers. His pajamas. I wanted him intensely.

"You ok?" He asked.

I made an impatient noise – wasn't it obvious?! "Clearly, I'm fine."

"It's not clear to ME." John said in that way he has that makes me question myself.

"What do you think of the family?" I asked. I didn't want to explore my ok-ness with John.

John shifted his weight on the bed as he shifted his thoughts to our case. "Lady Anwen is lovely. Her brothers... bunch of rich wankers." I can see he's not finished. "Gereth might turn out ok. Or he might just be more charming than the other two. Interesting they presented a unified front against their father's marriage. Against Victor."

He looked at me as he said Victor's name. Of course he did – John was worried about me. I wanted to think he was worried that he had a rival... but I could read him like a book and that had not even crossed his mind.

John knew now that I'm not asexual. Would he guess how I feel about him? Did I want him to? It would be a relief... but I didn't want John's pity. I didn’t want to lose our friendship.

"You didn't know he was here?" John asked, studying me carefully.

"No." John nodded. He let silence stretch between us, waiting for me to acknowledge Victor. "You spoke to him." I said finally.

“Yes.”

John was so tense, so earnest, I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Surprised?”

He relaxed minutely. “Yeah. It’s all true? You and he were… lovers?” 

“Yes.”

He hesitated again, but he obviously had questions. “Do you still think of him?”

“No. It was twenty-five years ago.”

“He’s worried about you.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “Whatever for?”

“He’s worried that he harmed you. Scarred you.”

I snorted derisively. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You WERE very young.” John pointed out, as if I didn’t know. “And – as far as I can tell – you haven’t had a love relationship since I’ve known you.”

“That has nothing to do with HIM.” I scoffed. “Most people are simply too dull to spend an hour with – let alone enough time to qualify as a relationship. I have standards.” I told him loftily. “I couldn’t bear to settle for just any Mariah or Brenda or Jan.” These were the names of John’s last three girlfriends, and it pissed him off. 

“How do you know if you don’t try?!” He asked testily.

“Who says I don’t?”

“I live with you, Sherlock. You’ve NEVER brought anyone home…”

“Someone would have to be very interesting indeed for me to even contemplate bringing him into my home!” It came out louder than I intended. “John...” I said in a softer tone. “I didn’t lie to you. I consider myself married to my work. Even if there were someone ...” I stopped myself. I was going to say, ‘he wouldn’t want to come second.’ But I didn't know any longer that John WOULD be second. He was so entwined with the work… and I loved him so dearly…

“Even if there were someone…” John prompted. “Is there someone?”

I should have said 'no.’ I should have denied it soundly. But I’d just claimed not to lie to him.

“Oh my god. There IS someone.” 

I couldn’t bear his concern! 

“Sherlock?”

“Come on, John. It can’t be surprising that someone as oblivious and uncivilized as I might not be considered ‘a good catch.’” 

“Is this why you’ve been acting so strangely? Is this what’s been bringing you down?”

I shrugged. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” John exclaimed. “Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you were dying! I thought you had an inoperable brain tumor or an aneurysm or something!”

“Nothing so dramatic.”

“That’s such a relief! I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you!”

I was warmed by his sincerity. 

“This person… Irene? She wouldn't reject you...?"

"No. Irene is fascinating, but she has a... chromosomal disadvantage."

"Chromosomal... you mean she's a woman."

"Yes.”

"You only sleep with men."

“Of course.” I said.

John nodded, unsurprised. "This man, whoever he is ..."

"Yes?"

“He’s an idiot.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes.” I agreed. “He is that.”

Thunder cracked outside – I hadn’t registered that it had started raining, but now I heard it over the steady sound of the ocean.

“I should get some sleep.” John said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Hey – you might want to reassure Victor that your affair didn't harm you. He feels very guilty.”

“Mm.” I knew I’d have to talk with Victor about the case, but I couldn’t imagine it.

“OK. Goodnight.” John padded through the adjoining door and closed it.

 

––

 

I woke early the next morning ready to get on with the case. I wanted to examine the trail on which Sir Afan had had his ‘accident.’ I’d brought hiking kit: a suitable pair of boots from my disguise closet, a sturdy pair of trousers and a warm jumper. If I couldn’t borrow a jacket, I’d have to wear my everyday coat.

As I dressed, I considered rousting John to come with me, but after our conversation last night I was loath to be alone with him. I felt transparent – there was no way he could fail to see it was him I loved. I went downstairs alone.

Wallog was silent and dim in the pre-dawn light. I found my coat in the hall closet, but finding the kitchen proved more difficult. It took several minutes to locate the door to the downstairs hidden in the wall by the staircase.

The kitchen was lit and coffee made. 

“Hello.” I said to the lone occupant, a middle-aged woman wearing an apron.

“You’ll be one of the guests.” She said. “I’m Lyn, the cook.” She’d been eating her own breakfast, but got up immediately. “You’ll be wanting coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” I accepted the mug gratefully and spooned in the sugar. “I want to take a look at the trail Sir Afan was on when he had his accident.” I told her. “I understand it starts quite near the house?”

“Indeed, it does.” She said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Go out the kitchen door here and it’s 30 meters to your left. You’ll see the path, it leads into the cliffs.”

“Excellent.”

“You’ll be wanting something to eat first.” She said. 

“No. I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”

“It’s a long trail.”

“Mm. How long?”

She shrugged. “It'll be twenty K, give or take. And it’s not done raining.”

I huffed, feeling frustrated. “I’m going to take a look. Do you know where Sir Afan fell?”

Now she looked convinced that I was a ghoul. I didn’t care. “It'll be one of the overlooks. Maybe five or six K from the house.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a bag. “I made Welsh cakes.” She announced gesturing at the cooling pastries on the stovetop. She deposited several in to the bag and held it out to me. “Take ‘em.”

“Thank you.” I gulped the rest of my coffee and left the house.

I found the trail easily. It was wet and quite muddy from last night’s downpour and I quickly discovered that my boots were not waterproof. I persevered. The view of the ocean was really quite lovely – or would be on a less foggy morning. But it was satisfying to tramp along the path. It was a difficult enough hike to force me to concentrate on my feet rather than on what – and who – awaited me back at Wallog.

On reflection, I was surprised I hadn’t run into Victor long before. Perhaps we had avoided each other, each ashamed of our part in the affair. I regretted the deception, and according to John, Victor regretted it as well. Maybe I should apologize. He hadn’t hurt me – Mycroft ending our affair had hurt, but it had been doomed from the start. 

I was curious about Victor. What sort of man was he? He had thought me beautiful and he had loved me… beyond that I had only vague memories of his ambitions and plans. At thirteen I had been consumed by chemistry – I was determined to learn all there was to know – I was already reading University level texts and working with tutors. I remember Victor’s indulgent smiles when I tried to explain at length about my latest experiment…

It would be interesting, I decided, to sit down with him and talk. 

John, on the other hand… I had no idea what I would do about John.


	4. John Investigates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has several interesting conversations. But he can't find Sherlock anywhere.

JOHN

After a buffet breakfast in the dining room with only Geraint and his girlfriend, Bess, for company, I went back upstairs to wake Sherlock. I was surprised he had slept so late, but it was good for him. He drove himself so hard.

I was still reeling from last night’s revelations – Sherlock had a sex life! He’d had an affair with Victor! He was in love with someone! Who had rejected him! I tried to imagine this man and I simply could not. 

Sherlock WAS often inconsiderate, insensitive, ignorant of social niceties and oblivious to the hurts he caused. But he could also be incredibly generous and kind. He cared deeply about his friends and could be lavish with his time and attention. And he was...sensual. That had never jived with his supposed asexually. Even I felt it, Sherlock's magnetism – his physical magnetism.

If one were the focus of this extraordinary man, how could he reject him? How could ANYONE? I wanted to meet this man and advocate for my friend!

Sherlock would HATE that.

I smirked, trying to imagine it.

"Sherlock?" He wasn't answering so I opened the adjoining door. I'd missed him – his bed was empty and his pajamas were flung over a chair.

I wondered where he'd got to. I texted him, the signal was spotty outdoors, but the house wifi was solid. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. Which either meant he was somewhere without a signal, or he got my text and simply wasn’t deigning to answer. 

I went looking for him. I checked the study thinking he could be giving Sir Afan's will a close read, but it was empty. I wandered through the first floor – I found the library, a room three times the size of the study that easily accommodated a bar, a billiards table AND a full-sized adult, taxidermy elephant without giving up its airy spaciousness.

I walked through two separate rooms, both I would classify as 'the living room.' I suspected one was called 'the morning room' and the other 'the lounge' or some such. One led to a conservatory overlooking the ocean – not that much of it was visible through the morning mist. The man who had taken our bags to our rooms was there watering the many plants.

"Ianto?" I hoped I remembered his name correctly.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" He asked.

"Have you seen my friend this morning? Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, sorry."

"Ok, thanks." I wandered back to the dining room where I found Lady Anwen, Selwyn and Gereth taking breakfast.

"John!" Anwen greeted me warmly. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, earlier, thank you. I was just looking for Sherlock. Have you seen him this morning?"

"No – he's not in his room?"

"No." I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat opposite her. 

"Have you checked Vic's room?" Selwyn asked unpleasantly. "I haven't seen HIM down yet either."

"If they're talking, I wouldn't want to interrupt." I said icily, smiling at him – the smile that smart people back away from. Selwyn wasn't that smart. 

Selwyn looked at his brother and sniggered. "Cuck!" 

"Excuse me?" I asked, standing up abruptly.

Selwyn sneered. "I wasn't talking to you, mate."

"I think you were. Mate." I said, feeling dangerous.

Selwyn dropped the sneer – realising I wasn't as mild as I might appear. "Hey, to each their own. Whatever."

I didn't even know where to begin. 

Lady Anwen intervened. "Let me apologise for my brother, John. He's been a worthless twat his entire life."

Selwyn scowled at her.

I sat back down and sipped my coffee. "I have the cure for that." I muttered. Selwyn got up huffily and left the room.

I told Lady Anwen that I was certain that Sherlock would want to talk to Owen Hughes. She agreed and said she'd call him. 

"If you see Sherlock," I said, setting my empty coffee cup aside. "Tell him I'm looking for him." 

I returned to the conservatory. It had started to rain again. With the mist and the ocean, the whole world looked wet and gray. 

"Erm, Dr. Watson?"

I turned to find the youngest brother. "Hullo, Gereth. Call me John."

The young man smiled. "Thanks... John. Am I interrupting?" He asked. 

"Not at all."

He found a chair near mine and pulled it up. "Are you really here about Dad's will?"

"Yeah. Your sister has questions she would like answered."

"Why doesn't she just GIVE Vic the money if she's so upset about it?!" Gereth burst out.

"You'd have to ask her." I said. "But I imagine it's at least partly that she wants to honor your father's wishes – and he showed her a will that bequeathed his fortune differently than the one that was read. As for Victor, it's one thing to inherit money from your spouse, it's another thing entirely to accept charity from his family."

"I guess."

"You don't like Victor very much." I observed.

"It's not Vic, not really ... it was Dad. I mean, how would you feel if your Dad suddenly took up with a... a..." He had the decency to blush.

"Another man?" I supplied.

"Sorry – forgot you were bent too." He mumbled.

"You shouldn't assume you know what I am." I told him sternly. "And I'll try not to assume you're a complete git."

"Look, I'm sorry."

I regarded him skeptically, wondering what he wanted. "Were you at Wallog when your father had his accident?"

"We all were. I think that's why Dad went hiking, to get away from G and Selwyn."

"Why would he want to get away from your brothers?"

"They were going at him again. I didn't LIKE him with Vic, but it was a done deal, far as I was concerned. G and Selwyn, though... they wouldn't let it be. Kept trying to wear him down, get him to send Vic away. Only drove him away from them. He couldn't stand to be in a room with either of 'em unless Ani was there too.

"I overheard Vic saying they should take a holiday, get away from the badgering. But Dad said he'd be damned before his own children drove him out of his own house. I actually felt kind of bad for Vic. He seemed pretty miserable. But he stuck by Dad. He would though, wouldn't he – knew what side his bread was buttered on."

I sighed. "Gereth, do you REALLY think Vic is a gold digger?"

Gereth shrugged. "Why's he still here, then?"

"Because your sister begged him to stay. You think SHE wants to be left alone with you lot?"

"Ani?"

"Yeah. You know she and Vic are mates."

"G thinks Ani is naïve."

"And what do YOU think? Your sister strike you as naïve?"

He shrugged again. "About some things. You know what those people are like."

"Those people?!" I asked pointedly, hoping he didn't mean what he obviously meant. "Yorkshiremen?"

He rolled his eyes at me.

“What are you? A bloody American? We’ve already established that you’re homophobic and you want to go for racist too? What’s next? Women are too emotional to be good leaders? Immigrants are taking our jobs?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand only too well.” One more try, I decided, endeavoring to calm myself down. “Listen mate, we’re straight, white men – and you’re a rich one – the world is so slanted in our favour already, why bother feeling threatened when someone else gets something?” His face told me I was right. “This is all about the title, innit? That it went to Anwen instead of Geraint?”

“It’s always gone to the eldest male.” Gereth said stubbornly. “Dad went out of his way to change the entailment in Anwen’s favour.”

“When?”

“Before I was born. Granddad said…”

“Granddad?”

“My mother’s father. He said it’s not right, what Dad did. G should be the Earl of Kilvey.”

“What do you care? What difference does being third in line instead of fourth make?”

“It’s the principle.”

“It’s stupid. AND as you said about Vic and your father, it’s a done deal. Anwen inherited the title.”

“Yeah.” Gereth sagged. Defeat? Or was the weight of his prejudices bringing him down?

“Do your brothers feel the same way?” I asked. “Does Geraint feel he was cheated out of the Earldom?”

“I guess. He’s never said it should have been him instead of Anwen. He’d be better at it than he is at business. Anwen’s brilliant at business – she’s running Dad’s company now. I think Dad intended G take it over. Or Wynnie, maybe. But neither of them give a fig for textiles.”

“What do they do?”

“Nothing. Selwyn talks about taking an advanced degree… but I don’t see him going back to Uni. G rides horses with Bess and shoots, drives fast cars and plays racquetball.” 

“You’re still in school, aren't you?”

“Fifth form. I go back in a week.”

“Where?”

“Aylesbury. It's not far. I can come home on weekends.”

“Mm.” I sat back, thinking. “You were all here the day your father died… what did you do that day?”

Gereth smiled knowingly. “Trying to establish my alibi? I was playing Grand Theft Auto in my room. There’d been a row at breakfast – Wynnie had been picking at Vic again and Dad wouldn’t have it. He told Wynn to pack up and get out – to be gone by the time dad finished his hike.”

“Why didn’t Victor go hiking with your dad?”

“He had work. He’s lead designer in the company. That’s how they met,”

“Your dad hired him?”

“No. One of the VPs. But Vic didn’t have any problem dating the owner of the company. Moved right in.”

I let that pass. “So Victor left Wallog to go to work. You were playing video games. Selwyn – WAS he packing up?”

“I guess. I didn’t see him again until later. After Ani called and told him Dad had died.”

“And Geraint?”

“He was driving. Dealer in Tyllamfirth had a ‘66 Citroën DS 21 and G was thinking of buying it.” 

“Did he?”

“No. After Dad died and all…”

“Right.” I was startled by a crack of thunder. It was really storming out, the rain bucketing down, lightning flashing over the ocean. “Quite the storm.” I said surveying the sodden garden, the little waterfalls that had formed on the cliffs.

“Yeah. G won’t be able to ride. He’ll be stroppy all afternoon.” Gereth frowned. “Hi, Vic.” He said without enthusiasm.

“Gereth. You don’t mind if I talk to John for a minute, do you?” Victor asked.

“I was just leaving anyway.” Gereth asserted, standing up. “Cheers.” He said to me as he left the conservatory.

Victor sat down on the setee. For a minute we watched the storm together. 

“I wanted to apologise for last night.” Victor said presently. “I don’t usually drink that much.” 

“No, you were fine.” I said. 

Victor smiled at me archly. “I remember being a bit handsy when you were helping me stagger to bed. That’s not something I usually do either.” 

I shrugged and smiled back. “We’ve all been there, mate.”

“Ta.” He turned back to the storm. “I wanted to talk to Sherlock. Is he around?” 

“I haven’t seen him – he was up before I was. I’ve been looking for him too.”

“Oh.” There was another peal of thunder. “You haven’t talked to him then. He seemed pretty upset at dinner last night.” 

“We talked a bit before bed. I think he’s… fine. It was just a shock, seeing you. He said he’d talk to you today.”

Ok. Good.”

“Gereth was just telling me a bit about Sir Afan. You must miss him terribly.”

Victor seemed to deflate. “I do. I really don’t know what I’m doing here now. Without him.”

“Anwen seems to depend on you.”

Victor nodded. “I can’t abandon her. It’s just… she’s so much like Afan. Makes it harder.”

“That’s tough. You were at work when he… had his accident?” 

“Yeah. I was just getting ready to come home when Anwen came to my office. Geraint had called her.”

“Anwen was working too?” 

“Yeah. She’s brilliant with the company. She got the brains in this family. And the … human decency.” 

“Her brothers… I can’t imagine it’s pleasant living with them.”

Victor snorted. “I don’t know how they turned out so differently. Roger got a hold of them, I guess – their mother’s father. Afan was overwhelmed with her illness and death, Roger seemed like a godsend. But he turned those boys into fascists.” 

“Yikes. Where’s Roger now?” 

“He died last year.” Victor smiled ruefully. “He would have HATED that I was at his funeral.” 

I chuckled politely. “What did you think about the coroner’s findings? Misadventure?”

Victor looked out the windows at the rain. “It never seemed right. Afan was fit, he was experienced. He knew the trail. There was no reason for him to fall… but sometimes there isn’t a reason.” 

“What do you think about the will? About the substitution?” 

Victor shrugged. “Afan showed me his will after we married. He wanted to leave me half… but I talked him out of it. All I really want are some of the things that were ours – a painting we bought on holiday, a tea set he fancied… maybe some of his things as mementoes – I gave him a pen for his birthday one year. He carried it everywhere…“ Victor bowed his head and I felt badly that I’d reminded him of his grief. “Sorry…” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” I said. 

“No wonder I drink.” He attempted a smile.

“It’s ok, Victor. Of course you’re upset.”

Victor studied me for a moment. “Sherlock’s lucky to have you.” He said finally.

“And I him.”

Ianto came by not long after to say that lunch was ready.

“You hungry?” Victor asked. “I can show you the way.” 

“It’s not in the dining room?” 

“No, the kitchen. Lyn puts out a cold buffet on weekends and everyone just grabs what they want.” 

I let Victor lead me to a door in the big hall cleverly hidden in the wallpaper. There were narrow stairs behind it that led to what was once the servants’ hall and the kitchen. Anwen was at the long table in the hall with her laptop and a cup of tea. 

“Hullo, Vic. John.” She greeted us. We greeted her in turn then made our way into the kitchen. I hadn’t had much breakfast, and was hungry. There was charcuterie, sourdough bread, crudité, sliced cheeses, mustard and other sandwich fixings. I made myself a ham and cheese and sat down at the table with Victor and Anwen.

“Owen can come by this afternoon.” Anwen told me. “Will Sherlock be around then?”

“I still haven’t seen him.” I admitted. “But I haven’t left the conservatory all morning. I’ll text him again.”

“I looked for him about an hour ago.” Victor volunteered. ”He wasn’t in his room.” 

“Excuse me.” I looked up. The cook was standing in the doorway. “The gentleman you’ll be looking for, is he a tall fellow with dark hair?”

“Yes! You’ve seen him?” I asked.

“He came by the kitchen this morning ‘bout 5:30, asking about the Cliffside Trail. I told him it was going to rain, but he would go anyway. He’s not returned?”

“No… I don’t think so…” I looked uncertainly at Anwen.

“I’ll ask Ianto.” She said, standing up.

“Where’s the Cliffside trail?” I asked.

“It starts north of the house, leads up onto the cliffs and travels along the ocean. It’s the trail that Afan…” Victor stopped, looking grave.

“Bloody hell.” No wonder he hadn’t returned my texts! I wasn’t hungry any longer. “I should go look for him.” I stood up thinking of the torrential rain.


	5. The Cliffside Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Victor search for Sherlock in a cold and windy rainstorm.

JOHN

Victor put his hand on my arm. “You don’t know the trail. In this weather, it’ll be treacherous.” He saw me blanch. “Sorry, John, don’t worry. I’m sure Sherlock…”

He was interrupted by Anwen returning with Ianto. “No one’s come in through the front.” She said. “And Sherlock’s coat isn’t in the closet.”

I swore under my breath. 

Ianto spoke. “I’m going out to check the trail.” He said, opening a door to a large coat room and pulling a mac from a hanger.

“I’m going with you.” I said.

“It isn't safe, John.” Anwen said.

“Right. That’s why I’m going.”

“John…” 

“I’m going!” I said. “You can lend me some rain gear or not, but I’m going.”

“I’ll go too.” Victor said. “It’ll be better with three.” 

“Should I call 999?” Anwen asked. “Get a rescue team out here?”

“They can’t fly the chopper in this weather.” Ianto asserted. “It’ll take them an hour to get to Wallog. Best we go now.”

“Yes.” I said. “Now.” 

Anwen nodded. “Ianto, do we have boots and a jacket for John?” She asked as Victor went after his kit.

I followed Ianto into the coat room. One of the boys’ boots fit and I put them on. Ianto handed me a bright orange coat. “It’s waterproof.” He said. “Heavier ‘an fuck, but you’ll be warm and relatively dry.” I zipped it up and we clambered into the servants' hall. Victor was ready and waiting. He handed me a torch and a walking stick. 

“You’ll want this.” He said, hefting his own. He opened the door and cold rain gusted into the hall. I pulled my hood up and fastened it under my chin. We started out.

Ianto led the way and Victor brought up the rear, keeping me – the least experienced – between them. I couldn’t stop thinking about how long Sherlock had been out in this weather – seven hours! Whilst I was sitting around listening to Gereth air his prejudices, Sherlock was out here freezing…

I forced that from my brain. We would find him and get him back to Wallog. Then I could treat him if need be. He would be OK. 

The trail was a river of rainwater, filled with rocks. We picked our way through and I became increasingly grateful for the warm boots and coat. Sherlock was out here in his cloth coat?! He would be wet through long since. 

The trail led up the cliff. We climbed for what seemed like a long time, the wind shoving at us and the rain making it hard to see very far. Everything was dank and gray. 

Very suddenly the trail leveled out and Victor grabbed my arm. “This is the first overlook.” He shouted in my ear so I could hear him over the rain.

A meter from the trail, the cliff’s edge ended abruptly with a thigh height stone lip. On a clear day, the ocean would be beautiful. Today, it was treacherous, lightning still flashing in distant clouds.

We continued on. I slipped once and almost sat down in the water flowing over the trail. Victor caught my arm again and steadied me. The walking stick with its pointed tip was a savior, keeping me balanced as I walked over slippery stones and slid on the mud.

At the second overlook, Ianto turned to Victor and me and shouted. “We’ve come three K.” I nodded and we continued on wondering how in hell we were going to get Sherlock all the way back 

Ianto stopped suddenly and I almost walked into him. “LOOK!” He shouted, pointing. I searched ahead – and saw a bit of black among the gray. We picked up our pace, going as fast as we could without falling. The closer we got, the more certain I was that we’d found him. It worried me that he wasn’t moving.

Finally we reached him. He had crouched in the shelter between two boulders and pulled his coat over his head. 

“Sherlock!” I shouted. “Sherlock!” I opened his coat and found him huddled in on himself, arms crossed against his chest, head tucked down, using his sodden coat as a blanket, trying to preserve his precious body heat.

I touched his face and he looked up at me with uncomprehending eyes. “John?” His lips formed the word. His skin was grey and cold – he wasn't even shivering. This was bad.

Ianto was pulling items out of his pack – a heavy windbreaker, a thermos, a space blanket. I grabbed the windbreaker and Victor helped me get it under Sherlock’s coat and wrap it around him. I’d worry about getting his arms in the sleeves in a minute. I was opening the thermos and holding it to his lips. ‘Drink!” I shouted. “Sherlock! Drink this!” I tipped it up and saw him swallow. Then again, and again. His hand crept up to hold the thermos as he drank the hot liquid down. When he was finished, his eyes had cleared a little. 

Ianto handed me a hat, and I pulled it over Sherlock's soaked curls, then pulled the windbreaker’s hood over it. It took long minutes to get Sherlock fully into the coat and fasten it up, Victor holding Sherlock’s cloth coat over him, sheltering him from the worst of the storm, the whole time. I wrapped the space blanket around his waist, covering his legs to the knee, then we got his sodden wool coat on over the windbreaker. He was soaked through, but the windbreaker would keep his body heat in and the wool coat, wet as it was, would provide some warmth. 

I helped him stand and got his arm over my shoulder. I clung to his hand and wrapped my other arm around his waist. Ianto started back down the path slowly, my walking stick in his forward hand and holding Sherlock’s other arm in his firm grip. Victor walked behind us, keeping us from falling back more than once. Sherlock was heavy against me, but he walked, putting his feet where Ianto told him. 

We had to stop twice to let Sherlock rest. Ianto produced a second thermos and trail mix, both of which I made certain went down Sherlock’s throat. His hands were icy and I was almost choking on my fear.

I slipped and fell once onto a sharp rock, Sherlock coming down on top of me. The rock dug into my hip and for a moment, I didn’t think I’d be able to walk again, thought I'd broken something. But I struggled to my feet and the pain became manageable.

It took almost two hours to get back to Wallog, an endless journey through the sheeting rain. Every step both tedious and terrifying. I was flagging badly in my warm gear, I couldn't imagine how Sherlock was managing to keep putting one soaked, squelching foot in front of the other.

At long last we were dripping and steaming in the old servants’ hall. I threw off my orange jacket and struggled to unbutton Sherlock’s coat with my cold hands. Anwen’s fingers slipped under mine and opened them deftly. We pulled it off him, then she unlaced his sodden boots and pried them from his feet. 

“Help me get him up to bed.” I said. “Are there hot water bottles? Hot soup?” 

“Yes. Lyn’s getting it all ready. I’ll bring it up after we get him settled.”

Sherlock protested when I pulled him to his feet again. “Just a little farther.” I assured him. “Just up to your room.” But he was done in. Victor helped me carry him up the two flights and settle him gently in an overstuffed chair in front of a roaring fire where I could undress him.

“Anwen’ll be up with soup in a minute.” He said, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s thin form. “If you need anything, John, just yell.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Victor.” I was already on my knees pulling off Sherlock's wet socks.

My legs were wet through as well, and my hands and nose were numb with cold, but I was warming up quickly crouching in front of the fireplace. I undressed Sherlock – and made another shocking discovery about my flat mate – he had a pierced nipple. It looked good as those things go – a gauge 4 stainless steel barbell straight through the dainty rosebud. 

Then as I wrestled his trousers and pants off his hips, I saw something within the confines of his neatly trimmed pubic hair that made me wince and cringe: Sherlock had a Prince Albert piercing! Named after Queen Victoria’s husband, who, yes, had this piercing, a ring goes into the urethra then out the shaft under the head of the penis. His foreskin covered part of the ring, but not all. I’d never seen one in person. I couldn’t imagine the amount of pleasure it would have to cause to be worth getting. 

Sherlock was shivering uncontrollably, but I had the distinct impression that he was laughing at me. My face must have reflected my discomfort. 

There was a knock at the door. I threw a blanket over Sherlock then let Anwen in with the soup and hot water bottles. She seemed unsure whether to linger, but I shooed her out. 

I started feeding Sherlock the soup, but after a few bites he became impatient with me and wanted to drink it from the bowl. I helped him hold it. Then I got him into his bed. I’d warmed it with the hot water bottles and now I made sure to tuck them strategically – one by his feet, one by his chest, another on his back.

I was exhausted by then. I stripped off and climbed in behind Sherlock, relocating the hot water bottle to between his knees.

“John.” He murmured as I held him tight.

“You’re going to be all right.” I told him.

“You c-came for me.” He shivered.

“Of course I came for you.” I said gruffly.

“I c-couldn’t remember which w-way was back. I k-kept getting turned around.”

A classic symptom of lowered body temperature. I shuddered to think what would have happened if we hadn’t gone looking. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” I was pressed against his back, sharing my own body heat with him, my head tucked against his shoulder. For once I wasn’t bothered at all that people would think we were a couple. (I HAD taken a detour to my own room for a pair of pants. I didn’t think Sherlock wanted my naked bits pressed against him any more than I did. Although with the revelations of the last 24 hours, I couldn’t even guess what Sherlock wanted!) 

I felt him shaking – it was different than the shivering. I looked at him in concern. “Are you… crying?” I asked, seeing tears on his face. 

“I-I’m just c-cold.”

“What were you doing out there?” I asked. 

“B-being an idiot.”

“Be an idiot indoors, ok?”

“OK.”

But he continued to shake as if heaving great sobs. I stroked his hair to try and calm him.


	6. Investigations Continue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally talks with Victor, then interviews the other members of the family.

SHERLOCK

I woke up alone in bed with the memory of John holding me in his arms. 

I'd thought I would die out there in the wet and cold, and I knew that my own idiocy was to blame. I'd been stubborn, pushing on longer than any reasonable person would have. I couldn't believe I was dying without ever having told John how much I loved him – or at the very least telling him how much I had valued our association. I'm not given to declarations of sentiment, but I regretted not making at least one as I slowly lost feeling in my feet. 

It was dark, but there was still a fire burning. John was dozing in the overstuffed chair by the hearth, the remains of a dinner tray on a small table next to him. He was wearing clothes, but he'd pressed his bare skin against mine. 

I wished he had come back to bed. 

I ejected the cool water bottles then laid back down and tried to sleep.

I woke again in the morning. I had a headache but there was sunlight in the windows and I could hear John humming to himself. He'd left the adjoining door open and I could hear him moving around.

He came to the door – to check on me – and smiled when he saw I was awake. He was damp from the bath, his skin pink and clean, a towel wrapped around his waist. I longed to touch his chest and shoulders, rub my face on the ginger fur on his chest, remove the towel, kiss him all over. The scar on his shoulder was pale and puckered.

I sat up and drew my knees into my chest. I didn't want him to see my morning arousal.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"A bit." 

"I've had breakfast brought up. Put on some clothes and join me."

I did what he said and went into his room, trying not to betray my stiff muscles. I saw how sharply he observed me, but he simply poured me a cup of coffee and urged me to sit.

"What happened while I was off adventuring yesterday?" I asked. I had a scratchy throat but John didn't comment. He related his conversations with Gereth and Victor and everyone's disposition at breakfast. Gereth's account of everyone's location when Sir Afan had died was especially interesting. I was starting to form a picture of what happened.

"I need to talk to Owen Hughes." I told him.

"Right." John said. "As soon as you eat your bacon." 

I complied less grudgingly than usual – I could see that John was still worried about me and I wanted to put that to rest.

I hobbled back to my own room, stretching out my sore muscles and walked through a hot shower. It didn't do much for my headache but I shaved and dressed anyway. I was buttoning my shirt when there was a knock on my bedroom door.

John appeared in the doorway between our rooms and we exchanged a glance. He went to my door and opened it. I noticed for the first time that he was favouring one leg.

"Victor." John said. "Hello."

"I was hoping to speak to Sherlock." Victor said.

"Hold on." John closed the door and turned to me, his face questioning.

I nodded. I felt queasy, but I needed to get this over with.

John opened the door. "Come in." He closed the door behind Victor then came to me. "Do you need anything?" He asked me solicitously in a tone just low enough to exclude Victor.

"No, thank you. John, why are you limping?"

"It’s nothing. Just a little spill yesterday. I'll be fine. And I'm right next door if you want me."

"Good." I touched his arm and he smiled. He went back into his own room and pulled the door to, but I noticed he didn't latch it.

Victor had watched our interaction with interest, taking in every detail. He watched John leave the room.

"How are you, Victor?" I asked.

He approached. "I've been better."

I nodded. "I imagine it's been awful for you here, losing your partner..."

His face was a portrait of grief – the sudden loss of a loved one could be very hard. I remembered how I felt when I thought Irene had been murdered.

"You aren't staying here." I saw it clearly in the twitch of his fingers and the shift of his eyes. "What are your plans?"

"I don't know. I'll have to find work... there's a company outside Paris that might do." He smiled bitterly. "Have to polish up my French."

"If you'd gotten the money Afan intended..."

"It doesn't matter." Victor cut in. "I didn't expect he'd die for thirty or forty more years... then what he'd left would keep me comfortable until I joined him. I don't need it now. I'll find my own way."

"Do you think his death was accidental?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine it. But who would kill him?"

"He'd rowed with Selwyn. Geraint might think he should have been the heir. Owen Hughes might have been desperate for a larger bequest. There are numerous possibilities."

"But... family?"

"It's usually family."

"You were always so matter-of-fact about the most horrible things."

"We all have our talents." I said.

"And our flaws."

He was close enough that I could smell him – a scent both familiar and strange. 

"Indeed."

Victor regarded me for a long moment. "How are you faring? After yesterday?" He asked.

"Oh... other than some embarrassment, I should recover."

"Good." 

"Thank you for coming after me." I said, self-consciously.

"No, it's the least I could do." We looked at each other. Even after twenty-five years, I remembered what his hands felt like on my body... his mouth... "Look." Victor said. "I need to apologize for what I did to you..."

I scoffed. "I'm the one who should apologize, Victor. I knew my age was a problem and I kept it from you. I lied to you every day. And I knew how dangerous Mycroft could be."

"You were just a kid..."

"I was far from JUST a kid." I told him. "I went to the woods for sex, just like everyone else. You weren't the first man I met there." He still looked tortured. "Stop with the self-flagellation, Victor. I wanted you. You didn't hurt me." I felt impatient.

He reached out with his large hand and laid it on the side of my neck just as he used to when he wanted to kiss me. I could feel his fingers flex lightly. Just as it had done then, his hand distracted me completely from my impatience and indignation. I closed my eyes remembering what it had felt like to be so loved.

Victor's lips touched mine tentatively. I allowed it and he pressed closer, his soft kiss growing harder, his hands pulling me against his body, his tongue...

"Oh! Erm... sorry!" It was John, frozen in the doorway between our rooms.

Victor jumped back, but he removed his hand from my neck more slowly. 

I too startled, locking eyes with John. It seemed I held his gaze for hours – he had gone deathly pale and his gaze burned into me – but a second later he retreated shutting the door between us firmly. 

My headache throbbed.

"How long have you been in love with him." Victor asked me softly.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To everyone but him, I imagine."

I sat down in my chair with a sigh and cradled my forehead. "It's hopeless." I muttered.

"Maybe." Victor conceded. "But he's alive. And he's devoted to you." He brushed a lock of my hair back, his fingers warm on my brow. "Go talk to him."

After Victor left, I knocked on the adjoining door. "John?" I called. I could hear the clank of dishes.

"Yep?"

I opened the door. John was stacking our breakfast dishes with his back to me.

"John."

"I'm sorry I interrupted." John said to the dishes. "I thought he'd gone."

"You didn't interrupt." I said. "He's gone now."

"Mm."

"John, leave the dishes."

He stood up straight and turned to me. He viewed me coolly, but then his brow furrowed. "You're pale. Do you feel ok?"

"Just ... a headache."

"Why didn't you say!?" He came to me and felt my forehead. "You're warm." He announced. "Go sit down. "I'll get some ibuprofen."

"John, wait." I caught his shoulder as he turned to go. He felt stiff, tense. 

"Go sit down." He repeated.

I wanted to pull him into my arms, kiss his face a thousand times, tell him that Victor was nothing to me, tell him how much I loved him...

I went back to my room and sat in the overstuffed chair. I had started to doze by the time someone came in... it wasn't John. It was one of the domestic staff, the man who'd come out with John to rescue me. He set a covered tray on the side table.

"Dr. Watson asked me to build a fire for you." The man said, kneeling on the hearth.

I uncovered the tray. There was water, ginger tea, paracetamol tablets and cough syrup. "Where is Dr. Watson?" I asked.

"I'm not certain, Mr. Holmes. I could look..."

"No, no, never mind." I swallowed the paracetamol and sipped some of the tea. It had been sweetened the way I liked it.

I needed to work on the case. I had run off foolishly yesterday, but I had learned several things about the Cliffside Trail – I was out there in a bloody great storm, never having traversed it before, and I was never in danger of going over the edge. The overlooks might have been treacherous to a child or an inattentive idiot – but Sir Afan, in good weather, could only have jumped purposely, been pushed or been chased off. Chances were, someone had confronted him on the Cliffside Trail – but who and why?

And had the same person substituted the will?

I needed to speak to Owen Hughes.

Despite sleeping for fourteen hours, I felt tired. But I forced myself to my feet. I put on my shoes and jacket and went in search of Lady Anwen.

I found her in the study working on her laptop. She smiled at me. 

"You're looking much better today." She said. 

"Yesterday was unfortunate – but I did establish that your father was almost certainly murdered."

"Oh! Who? How?"

"I have a theory." I told her. "But I need to speak to Owen Hughes first."

"I'll call and see when he can come out."

"I can speak to him on the phone, I think... can you call and let him know I'll be contacting him?"

"I'll do that right away."

"Excellent. What did he say when you told him you thought the will had been substituted?"

"He insisted that this was the will Dad had given him."

I nodded. "You mentioned a flat in London – had you been spending more time there in the months before your father's death?"

"Yes, why?"

"So you'd been here at Wallog less, spent less time with your family?"

"Yes. Honestly the rowing was miserable. If it wasn't Dad and Selwyn it was Dad and Geraint. I even heard Dad going at it with Vic and they never fought. Maybe if I'd been here more..."

"What about Gereth? Did he row with your father?"

"No. He was away at school most of the time, but when he was here he and Dad got along. He'd even started warming up to Vic a little."

I nodded. "Thank you, Anwen. Is there somewhere I can telephone Owen Hughes in private? The cell reception out here is spotty."

"There's a phone downstairs in the old Butler's parlour." 

"Perfect." She gave me the number and I made a note of it. "Have you seen John?"

"You two seem to lose each other quite a lot. He was walking in the garden with Gereth a bit ago."

I frowned. "If you see him, please ask him to come to my room immediately."

"I shall."

I nodded. "Good. This will all be over soon."

"Can't you tell me what you suspect?"

"No, it would only endanger you. As it is, you should be cautious – don't speak of this to anyone. We don't want to tip off our murderer."

"I guess that makes sense."

"No one, even those you trust most – you don't know what that person might let slip. Better keep it between us for now."

"I won't say anything."

"Excellent!" I left her dialing Owen Hughes and made my way downstairs. I found the butler's parlour easily – it appeared it was used as an office for the household staff. I had several calls to make before speaking to Owen Hughes. 

It took about an hour to make my calls. When I emerged, it was lunchtime and the four cleaners (who did not live in) were eating at the long table in the former servant's hall. 

I took the opportunity to prowl through the small warren of servant's rooms – the largest was a small guest room with a double bed, chest of drawers, lamp and television. The bed was rumpled and room smelled of air freshener. I wondered if the cleaners skipped this room – the rest of the house was pristine.

There was also a coat room that held many of the family's coats, jackets and boots – I wished I'd raided it before starting out on the Cliffside Trail the day before. A small toilet with a stall shower and well stocked linen cupboard was adjacent to the guest room, but available to all. Behind that was another staircase leading to the second floor. 

The thought of climbing all those stairs was exhausting. My headache had faded somewhat, but my exhaustion had only deepened. I turned back.

In the kitchen, I saw that lunch was set out. Gereth was there making himself a plate. I addressed myself to the cook.

"Thank you for the Welsh cakes yesterday. They were lifesaving."

She ducked her head, pleased. "It was nowt. Sir Afan liked to take a few cakes when he went hiking. I want to have them ready, don't I. You like a Welsh cake too, Master Gereth."

The teenager blushed. "Your cakes are the best, Lyn."

"You'll be having some lunch?" She asked me.

"Just tea. I had a late breakfast."

"You still think someone switched out Dad's will?" Gereth asked. "Who? Why?"

"Who would benefit?" I asked. "And who would suffer? Those are the key questions."

"According to Ani, Selwyn got the biggest bump. And Victor was cut out."

"As were quite a few smaller bequests. We can't discount those."

"We can't? Seems like a lot of trouble just to keep someone from getting 50,000 quid."

"It does, doesn't it. Unless one is greatly in need of £50,000." I'd spent almost no time with the three brothers – I saw Victor for the first time in twenty-five years right before I met them and had formed almost no impression of them myself. John had told me of his conversations with Gereth and Victor, but Selwyn and Geraint were little more than outlines – the surly ponce and the chubby toff, respectively.

Gereth was tall and thin as a reed with that particular beauty that some men have before they reach physical maturity. He resembled his sister both in handsomeness and inherent elegance, but it was offset by his teenaged gangling awkwardness. John had reported that the boy was ridiculously, almost cartoonishly, prejudiced... the misdirection of the closeted queer, perhaps? The kid pinged my gaydar.

"Do you know where John has got to?" I asked him.

"Erm, no... why?"

"Your sister said she saw you with him earlier."

The boy shrugged. "For a minute. We were going the same direction."

"Mm. Where was John going?"

"He didn't say."

"Mm. How about your brothers?"

"I think G is in the stables with Bess – that or the gun room. Wynnie's probably in the library. Or his bedroom."

"You told John you were playing video games in your room when your father died."

"Yeah."

"You do that often?"

"Sometimes."

"Right. Thank you." I moved to leave the kitchen.

"What about Victor?" The boy asked.

I turned back to Gereth. "What about Victor?"

"You didn't ask where he was."

"Does it matter?"

"He's the one that... " Gereth took a breath, puffed himself up with bravado. "I don't know why he's still here. No one wants him here."

I raised my eyebrows. "Your sister wants him here."

"Right. Ani's head of the family now." The boy said bitterly.

"That's a problem?"

"No!" Gereth scoffed. "EVERYONE treats me like a kid. Everyone thinks they know what's best for me. I want to be shot of the lot of them."

"That's what family does." I told him. "To the youngest. No matter how old you get."

It took him an interminable moment. "YOU'RE youngest?!" He realised.

"My brother is STILL insufferable." 

"Heh." He appreciated that. "You're going to tell me to be patient with them?"

I scoffed. "Of course not. But sometimes it's... useful. Otherwise I ignore him." I winked at the kid and left.

My throat was ridiculously sore and I felt flushed and achy. But I was close! I would triumph over my body's frailties! 

I texted John: Where are you? Come to my room.

I found Selwyn in the library, sitting by a window with a book.

"May I join you?" I asked.

Selwyn sat back and regarded me through his shaggy hair. "Why not?" He said, closing his book.

I sat down opposite him. "I understand you rowed with Sir Afan the morning he had his accident."

"Yeah." Selwyn said cooly.

"What about?"

"What we always rowed about – that I'm a lazy sod with no ambition."

"Did you ever fight about Victor?"

"Victor? Why would we fight about Victor?"

"I was told you didn't approve of your father's marriage."

"I don't believe in marriage – it's a bourgeois concept that oppresses women and shackles men." He shrugged. "But Dad could do whatever he wanted."

"He wasn't oppressing a woman, in any case." I said dryly.

Selwyn barked a laugh. "Just shackling himself to Victor. Ha!"

"Don't you consider homosexuality to be bourgeois decadence?"

"I'm not a socialist, Mr. Holmes, I'm a millionaire."

"So you had no problem with Victor?"

"I wouldn't go that far. He's an obsequious git. Sucks up to everyone."

"He sucked up to you?"

"He tried."

"How?"

"Pretended to be interested in politics. Solicited my opinions."

"Perhaps he was simply trying to get to know you."

"I wasn't interested. No reason he should be."

'Did he 'suck up' to Geraint?"

"Oh yeah. Asked about his stupid cars. Pet his dogs. Flirted with Bess. Flirted with both of 'em, really. Not that G noticed. Dad did the peerage a service, giving the title to Anwen. G is hopeless if he can't ride it, drive it or shoot it."

"What were you doing that day? After your father went hiking?"

Selwyn sighed. "Dad threw me out again. I went to my girlfriend's and got high."

"Were you upset that your father threw you out?"

Selwyn scoffed. "He did that every other week. He didn't mean it."

"Do you know what your brothers were doing?" 

"We're your prime suspects, then? G said he was going to look at a car. Don't know if he did. No idea what Gereth was doing. That kid can disappear."

"Anwen? Victor? What were they doing?"

"Ani went to work. I didn't see Vic after breakfast."

I nodded and got up to go. "John – Dr. Watson –I'm looking for him, have you seen him today?"

Selwyn leered up at me. "Thought you had a thing with Victor. Your doctor like to watch?"

I stared down at him. "You really are an unpleasant twat, aren't you."

Selwyn laughed. "That's what they say." He flipped open his book and made a show of returning to it.

I dismissed him from my consciousness.

In the hall I encountered Victor. I still felt a queasy thrill at the sight of him, but it was tinged with irritation. 

"Sherlock." He said in a voice as soft as a caress. Had he been waiting for me?

"I need to speak to Geraint." I went right to business – the memory of John's face when he caught us kissing... I never wanted to see John look like that again. "Do you know where he is?"

"Gun room." He said. "This way." As he showed me where the gun room was, he put his hand on the small of my back. He'd done that sometimes when we were together and the possessiveness of it had thrilled me. Now it felt intrusive.

We found Geraint cleaning rifles, his gun dogs lolling lazily at his feet. Both dogs stood as we entered – they swarmed around us, wiggling and wagging the stumps of their tails, sniffing at me and asking for attention from Victor.

He knelt down and rubbed their heads, cooing at them. Geraint silently approved.

As soon as I could, I shooed Victor away and closed the door after him. The dogs gave me another hopeful sniff, then returned to their master's side.

"You still can't stand to be in the same room as Vic?" Was Geraint's greeting. 

I smiled blandly, though he didn't deign to look up from his task. "I wanted to speak with you."

"I don't know why – I don't know what you're doing here." 

"In this room or at Wallog?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"Both. What does 'The Countess' hope to accomplish?" 

"Justice. Satisfaction." I offered.

Geraint grunted. "Ani's always insisted on being satisfied."

"I understand there was some contention in the family about Anwen being the heir instead of you."

Geraint looked up from his task, frowning. "Who said that? Selwyn? He just likes to stir the shit."

"I heard something about your grandfather."

"Granddad?" Geraint scoffed. "Where do you think Selwyn gets it? He even looks like Granddad." 

"So he didn't disapprove of your sister inheriting?"

"I don't know. He told her the family was lucky it was her. He told me I'd been robbed. He told Selwyn that nothing was worse than being a younger son... who knows what he told Gereth."

"DO you feel you were robbed?"

"Hell no. Being a younger sibling is great. All the perks, none of the responsibility."

"Mm. How did you feel about your father's marriage."

"Why? Because – according to Ani – Vic's been cut out of Dad's will?"

"There's a general sense that you and your brothers were unhappy with Victor, with your father's sexuality, that he decided to marry again..."

"That's bollocks! Ok, I wasn't thrilled Dad remarried, but I was never going to be happy about that no matter WHO he chose. His sexuality had nothing to do with it."

"You didn't want your father to remarry?"

"Intellectually, sure. I didn't want him to be alone. But emotionally... it feels like he betrayed mum. I know it's not rational."

"What about Victor as a person?"

"Oh, he's ok. He's pants at riding and shooting, but the dogs like him. What about you, d'you shoot?"

"Shooting is more John's area."

"Maybe I'll see if the doctor fancies some sport."

"Have you seen him today?

"The doctor? No."

I left him soon after. Where was John? I needed John. He hadn’t answered my text. I hoped he’d be in my bedroom.

I climbed the stairs wearily and opened my door. The room had been tidied, but no one was there. I knocked at the adjoining door. There was no answer, so I went in. John’s room too was empty. I pulled out my phone and dashed off another text. 

John wasn't there – no one was there... but his duffel was in the corner and his dressing gown was slung over the chair and it was comforting. My skin ached and my head throbbed and I felt like I was walking through wet cement. I sat down on John's bed and kicked off my shoes. I struggled out of my jacket and trousers and snuggled into John's bed. His pillow smelled like him. I rested my head on it.

I felt tears welling. I had cried yesterday when John had held me... I wanted so much for it to be more than it was, more than a doctor helping his friend heal... 

Burying my face in his pillow, I remembered his breath, slow and even on my neck, the prickle of his chest hair on my spine. I felt distantly, helplessly aroused by the memory, even through my pain and exhaustion.


	7. A Fevered Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock believes he has solved the case, but he's sidetracked by bodily infirmity.

JOHN

I was turned around again.

Every corridor looked exactly the same! No matter how many turnings I took, I was in an identical alley, still-sodden grass beneath my feet, five meter shrubbery walls to either side. Goddamn Gereth Llewellyn to hell! What had possessed me to follow him into this bloody hedge maze!? And where had he disappeared to?!

I admit, seeing Sherlock snogging with Victor had me out of sorts. More than out of sorts – I wanted to scream when I saw them. I still wanted to scream.

Sherlock was ill – I felt guilty, I should be with him. He had looked seriously peaky and I feared it would get worse before it got better.

Maliciously, I hoped Victor caught it.

Seeing Sherlock kissing someone had been strange and shocking. 

I didn't like it. In fact, I hated it. 

I missed my asexual Sherlock. I didn't know what to make of this suddenly sexual person with piercings on his sexy bits and his tongue in someone else's mouth.

And I felt ill-will towards Victor because of it. What did he think he was doing!? And why was Sherlock letting him?

Was Sherlock just curious? Was he trying to console himself after being rejected by his mysterious love interest? Did he just want laid? 

Or was he thinking of rekindling the relationship with Victor? 

It was disturbing that Sherlock had only been thirteen and Victor twenty-four! No matter how precocious, no matter how much Sherlock had wanted sex... it was creepy and wrong. No wonder Victor had been beating himself up over it all these years.

I felt like beating him up over it!

I turned another corner and met a wall of shrubbery. A dead end. Perseverating on Sherlock and Victor wasn't getting me out of this blasted hedge maze. I'd been in here a half hour already. I checked my phone again, but there was no signal in the maze.

I decided to take only right turnings... which lasted through two turns then dead ended again in a solid hedge wall. 

It was impossible to cheat the maze – the shrubbery was robust and full, top to bottom. There would be no cutting through or seeing over. I turned back, contemplating the gray sky above the disorienting sameness of the hedge maze.

Time to get creative.

I pulled a frond from the giant shrub and at the next turning, I placed it on the ground, the tip pointing in the direction that I turned. I did this until I hit a dead end. There I placed a frond across the path and retracing my steps, bent the fronds I’d already placed in half to signify I’d gone both directions. The ‘V’ of the broken frond pointed in the direction I had gone the second time. 

Knowing where I had been in the maze helped immensely – at the very least, it improved my state of mind. I knew I wasn’t retracing my steps over and over. Eventually I found the center – a small clearing with a little folly: the faux ruins of Roman columns, a marble statue of Aphrodite and a marble bench covered with hibernating ivy. It was probably lovely in the summer, but now the ivy was naught but a dead brown mass infecting the white marble folly.

I marked the opening I had come through and eyed the other three. I sighed and took the one on the left. Forty minutes later, I was back at the folly – cursing my own folly for walking into this damn maze in the first place. I'd been in here far too long – I was getting hungry and my hip was really starting to hurt. I chose another opening and worked my way through turning after turning, blank walls of shrubbery surrounding me everywhere.

It felt like my life before I met Sherlock. Empty sameness stretching out as far as I could see – and me, caught in it, trapped.

What would happen when Sherlock fell in love with someone who DIDN'T reject him? What would happen to me when he rekindled his relationship with Victor? Sherlock would go off and I'd be trapped again, trapped in unending, empty corridors.

I was really starting to lose the plot. Imagining Sherlock leaving me for another man. WE WEREN'T a couple!

Even so, what would happen to me? Our friendship could survive, but it would change. Sherlock would want to live with the other man, spend his time with him...

I turned again... and saw an exit.

I hurried through it like it might close at any second, disregarding the pain in my hip.

I was out by the road, where the avenue of trees began. I started the walk back to Wallog along the perimeter of the hedge maze. It was a longer walk than I had hoped – especially with a limp.

I’d been MIA for hours. I looked at my phone – still no signal. I continued hobbling towards the house.

As I reached the front doors, my phone trilled. I had a text. Actually, I had a number of texts, most from Mariah... I realised I hadn’t contacted her since the train. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about her since the train. I sighed. That wasn’t good. 

I went up to Sherlock’s room and knocked. No answer. I went to my own room and discovered Sherlock passed out in my bed. Which was… typical. The man has no boundaries. Tired? Lay down in John’s bed. He won’t care. And even if I do, Sherlock doesn’t care that I care. 

Irritated, I considered waking him. But he had looked awful this morning, he needed to rest. Gingerly, I felt his cheek and his forehead. He was hot and clammy.

I sat down on my bed. My hip was aching and I was sick of it. 

Sherlock’s last text had said that we couldn’t do anything until tonight. Which meant we’d be up most of the night. I should nap – sleeping in Sherlock’s chair last night had not been restful. I could go lay down on Sherlock’s bed… but what was he doing in mine?! 

I lay down next to him, on top of the duvet, and closed my eyes.

Why had he kissed Victor?!

 

\---

 

I was alone on the Cliffside Trail in the pouring rain. Sherlock was in danger. If I didn't get to him in time... 

He would fall over to edge of the overlook to his death on the rocky sand far below. 

There was an unseen menace. It was horrible... threatening. It would take Sherlock from me! I struggled through the rain, the pain in my hip sharp, stabbing. Where was he?!

I HAD TO find him!

I crawled over rocks, dragged myself along the slippery trail, it was endless...

There he was! I could see him but he was still so far away! And the bad thing, the menacing presence, was close to him! I cried I was so frustrated! I was working so hard and the gap between us wasn't closing.

Sherlock sat on a chair looking placid. Victor was next to him... he leaned in, taking Sherlock's face in his hands, and kissing him deeply. Sherlock made a small, hungry noise and pulled Victor in closer...

It was wrong! Victor was shadowed... he was the bad thing! He was infecting Sherlock! He didn't have to throw him over the edge, his menace was growing within Sherlock, taking him over.

It was love. A bitter, evil love for a horrible man.

I finally reached Sherlock... but it was too late! He couldn't see me any longer. He had eyes only for Victor. I grasped Sherlock, held him, pulled him close to me. I kissed him, his mouth... he yielded passively – he barely noticed me touching him, there was only room for Victor in his soul.

I shook him, I cried out. I kissed him again and again, his cheeks and brow, his mouth and chin... but he ignored me. Victor, however, Victor didn't like what I was doing. He grabbed me and with one great heave, threw me over the edge. I plummeted...

I woke with a sleep hangover, my head heavy and my mouth full of cotton wool. 

The room was dim, Sherlock still a reassuring warmth next to me. I got up and cleaned my teeth and washed my face and started feeling more human.

My dream was still close, the panic and fear still dragging at the edges of my consciousness. I went to Sherlock and touched his forehead, feeling for his temperature. 

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, shifting under the duvet.

"Are you awake?" I asked, combing the hair back from his face with my fingers.

"I'm not certain... I feel strange ... my hands are too big... I can't stand it..."

"You have a fever." I told him. "That's all. You're sick. Let me get a cold cloth, it'll feel good."

"No, don't... don't go... John..." Sherlock whimpered.

"I won't. I won't leave you. I'm just going to the bog for a cold flannel."

"Oh... " Sherlock tried to sit up. "I have to go... I have to slash..."

"Oh. Right." The image of Sherlock's pierced cock was seared into my brain – I didn't want the reminder. "Come on, then. I'll make sure you get there and back." I helped him up. He had sweat through his pants and shirt and was unsteady on his feet. Despite his fever, he shivered uncontrollably. "Oh, Sherlock."

"My hands...!"

"Ok, come with me." I walked him into the bog and undressed him – the piercings... still there, of course – and sat him on the toilet where he wept about his terrible hands. I drew a bath for him – a lukewarm bath. I was worried about his fever – hallucinations, body dysmorphia... not good. 

I made him drink a glass of water. He complained about his throat hurting, but he drank it with my help. Then I put him into the bath. He was docile, doing whatever I bid as long I stayed nearby. There was no way I was leaving him in this state.

In the bath, I helped him lie back and wet his hair, then I rested a cool flannel on his forehead and over his eyes. I kept a hand under his neck – I wasn't confident he wouldn't go under.

He stopped worrying about his hands. That was good. 

"You'll be ok." I assured him.

"No." He said. 

"It's just a fever, Sherlock. A little high, but we're bringing it down."

"No, John, he... it won't be Ok."

"You will, Sherlock. Trust me."

No... John doesn't love me... not like I love him. It won't be ok... it'll never be ok."

"What?"

"I love him... I love John so much... he doesn't want me..."

My mouth hung open like a fish gasping for oxygen as I tried to process his words. I had not expected this, I was shocked, completely shocked... yet I didn't feel surprised. I felt... I didn't know how I felt! Of course I loved him – he was my closest friend. Sherlock had saved me from the ennui that had started to kill me...

But he was IN LOVE with me. Sherlock was in love with me. ME! How did I feel about that? I searched for an honest answer.

I felt open, maybe, to all the possibilities.

I had never loved a man, never expected to – not like this. Could I? Did I already?

"Sherlock... " I stopped myself – he was sick and hallucinating, he obviously didn't realize he was telling me this. I shouldn't take advantage...

"What about Victor? You kissed him!" I blurted, surprising myself. I realised how fully I had hated seeing Sherlock with him. How angry I was. How had I not seen it before?

Sherlock grasped at my shirt. "No! That was nothing!" He was weeping again.

"Ok... shhh... it's ok." I tried to settle him back down, but he was agitated and clung to my shoulders, wetting my shirt quite effectively. The flannel fell into the water and I tried to grab it... Sherlock pressed his lips against mine...

He kissed me. It was a feverish kiss – his lips were unnaturally hot, his skin rough, so unlike a woman's. Then he was frantic, pressing kisses on my chin and cheeks as much as on my mouth.

I didn't dare pull away, I didn't want him falling back and hurting himself. As it was he was slipping and sloshing the water over the edge. I was drenched. 

Honestly, I didn't want to pull away from Sherlock's kisses. I remembered kissing him just as frantically in my dream, kissing him, trying to get through to him...

"Sherlock, calm down. Please." I cupped his head and pressed my lips against his hard, trying to hold him still... he stopped struggling, but he wept harder. I eased him back into the water. "There." I said. "Relax. I'm here... I'm not going anywhere."

"John?"

"Sshhh"

He settled slowly, the cool water soothing him, but he was still upset, I could tell. "You'll feel better soon." I told him.

"I hate it." He whispered. "Such a bloody stereotype...falling in love with my straight friend... such an idiot..."

I stroked his forehead. "Sshhh... it's ok..."

He fixed me with a furious stare. "It's NOT ok." He insisted. "Whatever it is, John, ok it's not."

He sounded more like himself. "You're starting to feel better." I said. "Good." I was vastly relieved.

I continued to run my fingers across his brow and into his damp curls, marveling at how good it felt to know he was mine. 

He was mine...

Sherlock closed his eyes, but he didn't stop me.

"The water's getting cold. Let's get you back to bed." I said about ten minutes later. 

"I can get there myself."

"Sherlock, twenty minutes ago, you were delirious. I'm not leaving you alone."

"I'm fine." He said disdainfully.

"I'm happy you're feeling better, but you're far from fine. Come on, now, out of the tub.

"John... please..." He was blushing, red high on his cheeks.

"Sherlock, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." I said. I couldn't help but think of his piercings, they were visible in the water. But I kept my eyes on his face.

He clenched his jaw, but he took my arm and stood up. I held onto him as he climbed out of the tub, his cock piercing flashing in the light, then wrapped a big towel around him. He started drying himself off.

"Sit down. I'll go get your pajamas."

He looked furious again, but he sat on the toilet.

I got dry clothes for myself as well. He put his pajamas on then sat back down. He watched me change without comment.

I reinstalled him in my bed. He looked confused – but didn't ask me why.

"I'm going to get you more paracetamol and maybe some soup. I won't be gone long. Is there anything you want me to bring you?"

Sherlock looked stroppy, but his sweet tooth wouldn't be denied. "Biscuits. If they have any."

I laughed. "You ARE feeling better!"

I found Lady Anwen on the stairs and explained the situation. 

"I can have soup and tea brought up for Sherlock – and dinner for you as well?"

"Yeah, I want to monitor his fever, make sure it doesn't get dangerously high. Thank you."

"No, of course." She hesitated, then dropped her voice. "Did he tell you what he's found out? When I spoke to him this morning, he said he was close."

"No. I know he had something in mind for this evening, I'll ask him about it."

It wasn't five minutes before there was a knock on the door. It was Ianto with a bottle of paracetamol and a glass of water. "I'll bring dinner soon." He told me as he handed over the medication. I thanked him.

Sherlock was curled up under the duvet. I thought he was hiding, not sleeping. I sat down on the bed and shook his shoulder gently.

"Sherlock, sit up and take these pills." I said.

He emerged and did as I bid, wincing as he swallowed the paracetamol.

"Sore throat?"

"Yes."

"Other symptoms? Body aches? Headache."

"I had a headache earlier, but not now. My skin... my skin hurts. And I'm exhausted by the smallest exertion."

I nodded. "Lots of rest and lots of fluids." I said. "Soup will be here soon."

He searched my face for a moment – I wasn't sure what he was looking for or if he found it. Then he nodded somberly and retreated within himself.

He ate his soup and drank the sweetened ginger tea, and he actually smiled at the little stack of jaffa cakes. Then he lay back down. "Thank you, John." He said.

"Hey, shove over." I told him.

He looked at me, confused. "Why?" 

"You're in MY bed. Leave room for me."

"I... I don't think that's a good idea."

"You should have thought of that before you crawled into my bed, then. Shove over."

"John..." He refused to meet my gaze. "Things are different now."

"Yes." I said.

"John..."

"Sherlock, I'm relieved. Very relieved. I thought you were leaving me for Victor."

"Victor!?"

"You kissed him. I've never seen you kiss anyone. Not even Irene."

"I would never... not Victor!"

I smiled. "I know that now. I couldn't stand the thought of you leaving."

"Oh" He eyed me, his vulnerability painfully apparent. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know." I moved from my chair to the bed, sat next to him. I touched his cheek, ran my fingers back through his hair. He closed his eyes, overcome by the sensation. "We don't have to define it now. We have time for the details – when you're well, when we're home. We'll go slowly... work it out together."

"But..."

"Don't question it, Sherlock. I'm not."

He nodded, eyes still closed.

"So shove over. You can't expect me to sleep with you across the bed like that."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "No – no sleeping. We have to work tonight!"

"No, Sherlock! You aren't leaving this room."

"It's perfect – they won't expect us tonight!" He sat up avidly.

"We can do it tomorrow." I protested.

"It HAS to be tonight. Tomorrow is too late."

"Then I'LL do it!"

"John!" He all but whined.

"Sherlock, an hour ago you were weeping uncontrollably and insisting your hands were too big. You're staying in bed!" 

"John, I'm doing this." He preempted my argument with an impatient gesture. "It's not strenuous. Just a stakeout."

"You need to sleep." I said, more gently, running my hand down his bare arm, feeling him shiver under my fingers. "I can stay up and watch whatever you want watched. I'll text you when something happens – what's supposed to happen anyway?"

Sherlock explained his theory. I admit, I was shocked, but I couldn't deny the logic of it. Nor could I deny him the chance to prove it. But I insisted he sleep until it was time to go to work.

I took the equipment he had brought with him downstairs and installed it myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chekhov's Hedge Maze raises it's ugly head....


	8. The Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John set up a stakeout to catch Sir Afan's killer.

SHERLOCK 

I barely knew how I felt. I had vivid memories of the horror of my too-large hands – a strangely terrible sensation that in my fevered state, completely overwhelmed me. I also remembered every word I said to John when I thought he was lost to me, the admission of love, the weeping and the desperate, desolate kisses...

He didn't react how I'd imagined, neither pitying me, scorning me, nor – as in my most cherished fantasies – embracing me and kissing me with an erotic fervour that matched my own.

My humiliation when I realised what I had done was devastating. I wanted to melt into the bath water and follow it down the drain. I wanted to shrink away from him, and continue to shrink and shrink until I ceased to exist. 

John’s anger over Victor, though. That told me he cared for me more than as a friend. I was fevered, I reacted defensively, graspingly… but he was kind and affectionate, stroking my hair in the most wonderful way. The most confusing way. 

John isn’t gay. He’s had a string of girlfriends in the time I’ve known him and shown no sexual interest in men – I would know, I watched for it relentlessly, even following him to see if perhaps he indulged in a bit of cottaging. Many ‘straight’ men do. Unlimited, free, no-strings sex on demand is a powerful motivator even to those who prefer women.

But he never did. Occasionally I saw a man look at him in that special way – the tinyiest bit intense, the tinyiest bit too long. John never noticed, never returned the look. Once I followed him into a public bog known for cruising… he paused when he saw a young man jacking off another man at the urinals, then mentally shrugged and quickly did his business far from the exposed pair. John has never shown himself to be heteroflexible. 

So why did he caress me so lovingly?

I don’t know if we’re together or not. John says we can work out the details later. The details. Small things like touching and snogging and sucking and licking and fucking … I want to devour John Watson! I want to swallow him whole, take him inside me, make him cum so much and so hard he can do nothing but lie against me, limp and drained, completely in my power.

ARE we together? IS he mine? Are we a couple? Are we everything John has always denied that we ever could be?

Perhaps he’ll try to meet me halfway. We’ll have an affectional relationship – cuddling and kissing, sleeping together, caring for each other’s emotional needs – and have sex on the side as needed. Or would he expect that we’d both abstain? Maybe he’d let me blow him sometimes when he was feeling charitable. 

How can I expect him to set aside his natural preferences and a lifetime of exercising them… for me? A skinny, overbearing, rude know-it-all with exotic (to him) piercings and the wrong sort of anatomy who'd gotten him kidnapped (TWICE!), shot at and drugged. Who would choose THAT over petite and pretty Melanie with her soft breasts and tight cunt?

I’ve become one of those pathetic, aging queens desperately in love with a straight man simply because he’s been kind to me. God damn Victor Trevor to hell! If he hadn’t been here, John would never have known anything about my sexual life. 

 

\--

 

True to his word, John woke me at midnight. He’d set up the camera when the family was still at dinner, but I wanted to be close at hand anyway. I couldn’t trust the camera wouldn’t be discovered or that it would record enough evidence to convince Lady Anwen of the truth.

“You’re wearing a suit?” John asked me with dismay. I was changing in the light of my iPhone – I didn’t want to alert anyone still up that we weren’t sleeping.

“Of course…. why?” My voice had gone and all I could manage was a strangled rasp.

“Why don’t you wear your pajamas – something comfortable. You can bring your pillow, rest a bit while we wait.”

I glared at him. “I’m a professional!”

“You’re also sick as a dog.” He looked me over and I shivered with desire. John had already changed into jeans, but his chest was bare. I could just see the puckering of the scars on his shoulder. I wanted desperately to kiss them… “You’ll just rumple your suit.” He finished.

“I don’t have anything else.” I said.

John scoffed, his eyes laughing at me. “You’re a professional.” He pulled his striped t-shirt over his head and I wondered if he had noticed me staring. “I can lend you a jumper. It’ll save your jacket, anyway.”

“OK.”

He looked at me strangely like he hadn’t expected me to agree. I loved John’s jumpers. Granted, I loved them on John, but he was right, I felt awful. The thought of John’s jumper enveloping me, smelling of wool and John’s soap and JOHN, was extremely appealing. He dug in his duffel and handed me a blue one.

“This will go with your eyes.” He said.

I stared at him. He’d never said anything of the like before. 

“Come here.” He said. I obeyed, hesitantly – he surprised me by pulling me into his arms. This magnified our height difference to an unfortunate degree, so I bent my knees to level us out somewhat. He smiled and caressed my cheek as I stared at him in wonder, overcome by the sensation of my chest pressed against his, his strong arm stroking my back… “I’d kiss you, but I’m sure you’re still infectious.” He said and rubbed his cheek against mine, his rougher, more stubbled, and absolutely divine.

I sighed and let myself relax against him. 

"I wish you weren't so sick." John whispered. "I'm worried about you."

I couldn't see his face. I couldn't ascertain if this was simple kindness to a friend or something more. I wanted it to be more so badly, I couldn't trust myself. Maybe if I didn't feel as if I had been chewed up and spat out by some sort of devilish kaiju...

John brought a pillow despite my (rather weak) protest. I found myself grateful to have it as we settled ourselves on the floor of the coat room downstairs off the former servants' hall. We'd used John's iPhone to find our way here - me clinging to his hand - but now it was pitch dark and silent. We dared not whisper or turn on our phones or even move lest the light or sound give us away. We had to stay awake in the still darkness.

I struggled. More proof, if I needed it, that I wasn't myself. I am generally quite adept at keeping myself awake and alert for long periods.

John struggled less, having taken advantage of the hours before midnight to nap (next to me in bed, a warm yet separate presence). But he had a harder time keeping still, shifting his legs and wiggling his fingers so much I wanted to hiss at him to stop. I restrained myself.

It was forty minutes – by my counting – before I heard what I had expected: footfalls approaching.

We had left the closet door ajar, so I saw the lanky figure as he passed us and went into the toilet next door. I listened to him snap on the light and urinate, flush and turn on the water. The water ran for a long time – much longer than he'd need to simply wash his hands. Finally he turned it off. Another minute of cupboards and drawers being opened and closed and he left the toilet – leaving the light on – and crossed the hall to the little guest bedroom.

It was harder to hear him in there, but my phone vibrated against my ribs, letting me know my camera – an older model iPhone I no longer used – had started recording.

I didn't look at the feed yet – I waited for the second set of footsteps to approach. He went directly to the guest room and pulled the door closed behind him. Then I pulled out my iPhone and held it out where John and I could see it.

John gasped.


	9. The Killer, Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock unmask the killer!

SHERLOCK

The camera didn't encompass the entire room, John had aimed it at the bed, so we couldn't see much at first. The lamp was on and we could hear them murmuring. Suddenly Victor appeared, carrying a naked figure with his legs wrapped around Victor's waist. They were kissing passionately. Victor laid Gereth down on the bed, then stripped his shirt off his powerful frame as Gereth unfastened his trousers. Victor shed them quickly and climbed on top of Gereth, kissed him, pinning him to the bed. Gereth's hips rolled upwards against Victor's upstanding manhood.

We could hear them, the wet sounds of their kissing, the words they exchanged.

"Oh, Victor! I missed you so much! It's been hell pretending I don't even like you..." Gereth murmured.

"I missed you too..." They kissed and writhed on the bed.

"You used to be with HIM, didn't you?"

"Who? Sherlock? A long time ago. Nothing for you to worry about, my darling boy." Victor kissed the boy deeply, reaching down to take hold of Gereth's erection.

"I don't like how he looks at you!" Gereth pouted.

"He'll leave soon and then we can go like we planned. It'll be just you and me." Victor took hold of Gereth's arse with both of his huge hands and squeezed.

I took John's phone and texted Lady Anwen. I urged her to come quickly – I remembered too well Mycroft walking into Victor's bedroom at the least opportune moment possible...

"France! Paris! I can't wait!" Gereth cried, moaning happily.

"Only the most romantic city for my darling boy."

I met Anwen in the servant's hall, shushing her before she could speak. I held out my phone and showed her the live video feed, muted, of Victor and Gereth snogging and petting on the guest room bed.

"What is this!?" She demanded in a fierce whisper.

"Your brother and Victor, in the guest room. Right now."

Her mouth set, jaw tense, she pushed past me. John waited gravely in the hall outside the door. We could hear their muffled laughter. It was bizarre, being on THIS side of this situation...

Anwen flung open the door. "What is this!?" She demanded in a voice more angry than loud.

Victor had the wisdom to pull away and cover himself, but Gereth... Gereth erupted into fury.

"What the fuck are you doing here!?" He screamed. "Get out!"

Anwen grabbed the naked boy by his upper arm and hauled him off the bed, his pecker flapping. But she was looking at a Victor. "How could you?!" She demanded. "He's fifteen!"

Victor couldn't meet her eyes. He just shook his head.

"So what?!" Gereth demanded. "It's none of your business, Ani! Let go of me!"

"It IS my business when a forty-six year old man is taking advantage of my underaged brother – it's very much my business!"

"We're in love, Ani! Our ages don't matter!"

"You're going to find out how very much it matters!" Anwen retorted. "You can visit your lover in prison – when you're old enough to sign yourself in."

"You're just like Dad!" Gereth screamed. "HE wanted to call the police too!"

Lady Anwen went completely white. "What... what are you... no, Gereth! Tell me you didn't...!"

"He was going to send me away!" The boy snarled. "I couldn't let him do that!"

"Oh, Gereth!" Ani wailed.

Gereth wrenched himself free and barreled over me, knocking me down on his way out the door. He raced up the back staircase, still buck naked.

John had been covering Victor, just in case. He made a concerned noise and both he and Victor moved to help me up. 

"Oh, hell no!" John said and incapacitated Victor with a swift move that sent him face first into the wall where John held him, fury barely contained. "Sherlock, are you ok?" He called to me.

"Yes." I told him. "Not to worry." I picked myself up with an assist from Lady Anwen. 

"Ani, I didn't know." Victor said. "I didn't know he hurt Afan!"

I believed him, but it hardly mattered – the man was a paedophile, unable to keep his hands off young teen boys. I wondered if there had been others. I wondered if I had been the first.

Anwen looked at him in disgust then marched down the hall to the little office and I heard her call 999.

Victor sagged in defeat. "Let me put my clothes on." He said. "Please."

John was loath to let him go, but he yielded, backing up to give himself enough room to maneuver if Victor tried anything – Victor was taller and had thirty pounds of muscle on John, yet I was completely confident that John could handle him.

I shut off the camera and slipped it in my pocket. I sent the video of Victor and Gereth to Lady Anwen in an email titled 'for evidence.' Victor might try to deny it later, but he couldn't deny the video. I went to her in the office.

"Police are on their way... I have to call a lawyer for Gereth..." She fretted, ill over her brother's actions.

"I'm sorry." I said. "Your father changed his will a few weeks before he died – he suspected Victor was having an affair and cut him out of his will himself. He also saw that his youngest son wasn't... that Gereth was impulsive. He decided to tie up his inheritance until he was older. Owen Hughes confirmed both when I asked him outright. He didn't say anything to you as Afan had told him in confidence."

Anwen nodded numbly.

Then I heard a sound that made my blood run cold – a rifle cocking. I had a vision of Geraint cleaning the hunting rifles in the gun room. How had I not considered them before now!? I turned to shout for John, but his battle-trained reflexes already had him barreling towards me.

John grabbed me with one hand and Lady Anwen with the other and dragged us away from the stairwell into the servants' hall. 

"Gereth, what are you doing?" I glanced back and saw Victor standing in the center of the hallway, intercepting his hotheaded lover.

"Get out of the way, Victor." Gereth snarled.

"No, love..." John had the back door open and was pulling us outside, kicking the door closed behind us – I didn't hear what else Victor said.

We sprinted across the garden, John leading, still holding my hand. Adrenaline had conquered my weakness and I kept up easily. 

"I need to talk to Gereth." Anwen said, slowing us.

There was a shot from inside the house and Anwen screamed. As we ran, I heard shouting inside the house.

I heard the door slam open behind us and Victor yelling. "Gereth! Stop!" I was relieved to hear his voice, to hear that the boy hadn't shot him. Then a gunshot rang out and I ducked reflexively.

John dragged me sideways and the lights from the house disappeared. We ran deeper into the darkness, zigging sharply left then right.

"Where are we?" I asked. 

"The hedge maze." Lady Anwen said. "I need to go back – Gereth won't hurt me..."

I clutched her wrist. "He killed Afan." I said urgently. "You don't know what he'll do. The police are on the way, stay with us until they get here."

"We'll get lost in the maze!" She cried.

The torch app on John's iPhone flamed to life. "I can get us through." He said. "Trust me." Anwen hesitated as John started off – but another gunshot and a rustle of shrubs had her running after him. I brought up the rear.

John ran down the dark alley, the torch illuminating the ground in front of him, he turned and I sprinted to catch up. I thought I could hear someone else in the maze. The impossible, dark sameness was disorienting.

John jogged confidently through turning after turning, looking back for us before disappearing around each one. I wondered if he was just getting us lost. The last thing we wanted was to be trapped in a dead end with a gunman behind us.

I couldn't tell how close our pursuer was, or if he was as confident in the maze as John appeared to be, but I wasn't going to waste time trying to find out.

Abruptly I was exhausted. I stumbled, just catching myself before falling face-first into the grass, but crashing against the prickly shrub wall instead. Another gunshot sounded – closer this time, the buckshot ripping through the vegetation. I heard a yelp... then John was under my arm, half-supporting me, dragging me along as quickly as he could. I felt him limping – I hadn't noticed before, or perhaps he'd hidden it, but under my arm, his painful limp was obvious. I was ashamed of my weakness, of my inattention – I was supposed to care about this man but I had been too fussed about what this word meant or what that caress said to see he was suffering. I resolved to be better. As soon as we escaped from Gereth's hunting rifle!

As he dragged me along, I saw how John was navigating through the maze – his torchlight picking out the fronds laying on the ground. He had been here before!

Anwen was grimly silent, but she was still with us, trotting doggedly. I took her hand.

"Almost there." John breathed. Another gunshot, impossibly close, and John jumped and shuddered but continued our forward motion. It was amazing how he kept it together despite his fear and pain, despite having been shot before... this is what had made me trust him, this amazing steadiness of character. This courage.

Lady Anwen staggered. I gripped her hand tighter even as John yanked me forward. And then the world opened up again – into a little clearing with an improbable Roman ruin in the center...

"I... I've been shot..." Lady Anwen stuttered.

John swore under his breath. 

And the rifle cocked audibly. I dove for the pillars as John pulled Lady Anwen down behind Aphrodite.

A tall, slim shadow emerged from the maze.

"I know you're here." Gereth sang out. "I'm hunting wabbits!"

I heard Anwen sob in fear – Gereth stood stock still, listening, waiting for us to betray ourselves.

"Where are you, Ani? Come out. I won't hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt dad... it was an accident. He didn't understand... you don't understand either, Ani. But you will."

I stood up and Gereth's rifle swung towards me.

"I understand." I said, raising my hands to show they were empty. "You know I understand."

"He doesn't love you anymore!" Gereth cried.

"No. And I don't love him either. But I did. I know how you feel, Gereth. No one knows better than me." I started to move slowly around the folly, out into the open. "Did Victor tell you, my brother – my older brother – dragged me out of Victor's bed."

"Your brother..." He kept the gun pointed at me.

"Yes. My nosy, know-it-all, big brother. I think I told you about him."

"Yeah. What did you do?"

I shrugged. "I was younger than you. And my brother is a very dangerous man – I knew he could hurt Victor, he could disappear Victor if he wanted to. I promised not to see Victor again as long as Mycroft left him alone." I took another step towards the boy. "Maybe I should've let Mycroft deal with him. Maybe you wouldn't be pointing a gun at me if I had. But I loved him too much to let Mycroft have his way." I took another step. "But no one can keep Victor out of prison this time. Your sister already called the police, they're on their way. Now Victor has a... a pattern of seducing under aged teens – I know he didn't seduce you, he didn't have to seduce you. He didn't have to seduce ME either. But the police won't see it that way."

"I won't let them take him!"

"What are you going to do? You have one rifle – how many shells are left? You aren't going to hold off the cops with that."

"You're telling me to make a run for it? To get Victor and get out of here before the police arrive? You think I'm stupid? There's no time for any of that. There's only time for revenge." In one movement, Gereth put the barrel of the gun more securely against his shoulder and sighted me. I tensed for the shot, wondering if I could survive a direct hit from the buckshot...

Then Gereth was toppling, the gun going off with a deafening bang... but I wasn't hit! 

John! John had tackled the boy. He had hold of the gun and twisted it forwards in such a way that I heard Gereth's finger bone snap. Gereth screamed and John rotated the rifle swiftly, the barrel contacting Gereth's forehead, knocking him unconscious.

"John!" I cried. The word squeaked strangely, reminding me that my throat hurt. It hadn't when I'd been talking to Gereth.

“Watch him!” John commanded, handing me the gun. He knelt and felt for the boy's pulse. "Heartbeat's strong." He nodded to himself. He stood up and turned back towards Anwen. "Watch him, Sherlock." He said. "Keep the gun on him."

"Is that necessary? He's just a kid." I reminded him.

"Like YOU were 'just' a kid?"

Point made. I checked to see that there was still a shell in the chamber, then pointed it at the gangly form that reminded me so much of myself.


	10. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is wrapped up.

SHERLOCK

It seemed to take forever for the police to arrive. I stood over Gereth in the center of the hedge maze, holding the gun on him as he stirred and ultimately sat up. 

Victor finally found us. "Gereth!" He cried and knelt by the boy, cradling him in his arms. I saw no harm in it – they wouldn’t see each other again. I could see that Victor was resigned to his fate. He loved the boy – and I believe he had loved me – but he knew it was wrong. 

Eventually, Victor carried Gereth out of the maze, marching in front of the gun I held on them. I felt ridiculous, it was obvious to me that Victor wouldn't run. But John was behind me, helping the injured Lady Anwen.

The police drove up as we emerged from the hedges. I surrendered the hunting rifle immediately and Lady Anwen tearfully backed up my account of the goings-on.

Victor turned himself over to the coppers quietly. 

Gereth, however, fought the police, hurling invective one moment, screaming for his sister to help him the next, and wailing for Victor. Ultimately, he was strapped to a stretcher and taken to have the injuries John had inflicted treated. 

Lady Anwen went to hospital as well, though she refused the ambulance. She’d caught some buckshot in her shoulder and cheek – she was bloody, but very lucky that nothing had hit anything vital. She asked Geraint to drive her, a detective riding with them to take her statement. 

John and I spent the rest of the night with the police going over and over the story – how I'd worked it out, what Gereth had said when we caught him with Victor. The video...

Ianto met us there in the morning with our luggage and took us directly to the train station. The Llewellyns were circling the wagons and we were no longer invited inside. Lady Anwen DID send a good-sized check with a short thank you note. British manners stand in the face of the worst tragedies.

We were quite the pair, John and I, at the train station. He was still bloodstained from ministering to Lady Anwen, and his limp was distinctly worse. My headache was back and my throat was painful and coated with disgusting mucous. I had developed a hacking cough and I still wore John’s blue jumper. My coat was still slightly damp.

We found seats on the train and collapsed into them. John put his arms around me and drew me close and we slept like that all the way to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next in the series, John and Sherlock arrive at home and work out the 'details' of their new relationship.


End file.
